#return of my builder OC its been a while

[monkiinart]

doodling dqb2 a lot.. its silly and fun

[damneddamsy]

second sight | cregan stark x oc (part v)

a/n: on this episode of Stark Fluff, claere gets a visitor, and cregan has mixed feelings about threesomes. also, cregan learns the harp.

Winterfell wore the slow creep of winter like a familiar cloak. The skies had grown paler, casting the looming walls of the castle in a sallow light, while the cold nipped steadily at its people, urging them to quicken their preparations. From the kitchen to the stables, grain stores were replenishing, the last of the harvest before frost could claim the fields. Blacksmiths hammered iron, the women mended at worn cloaks and men bundled hay for the livestock. Winter was not yet here, but its shadow lingered on the wind, always whispering its warning.

In the heart of the keep, the Glass Gardens had begun to take shape. The towering structure Claere had envisioned stood as a defiant tribute to life in a place where death crept so close. As the days passed, the curved iron frames of the brilliant garden grew taller, and panes of glass steadily fitted into place, though fewer hands worked than before. Claere's journey to the Wall and the ominous silence she had shared upon her return had compelled many away. And yet, those who remained—the builders and labourers still assigned to the task—seemed to grow fond of her, drawn to her quiet kindness, the way she listened with impossible patience to the complications.

But today, the hour she usually spent overseeing the glass gardens came and went. Claere was nowhere to be found.

Cregan noticed her absence first, though no one else seemed to. He strode through the courtyard, determined footsteps echoing through the Great Keep as he searched for her. He had asked the guards, the servants—none had seen her. There was concern in his chest, though his outward manner remained calm, and controlled. His pace eased when he finally came across a group of children playing by the kitchens. They must know something.

He crouched to their height and asked, “Have you seen Lady Stark?”

One of the girls, with red cheeks and tangled braids, blinked up at him. "She must be in the crypts, my lord. She's there on the third day of every sennight."

“The crypts?” Cregan frowned, his confusion evident. “Why?”

The girl only shrugged, her young eyes widening with uncertainty. “My lady says it’s of great benefit.”

A vague answer, but there was little else to go on.

The cold air within the cavernous crypts was still, undisturbed by the world above. As Cregan descended into the darkness, his eyes adjusted to the flickering glow of torches, casting long shadows over the stone effigies of his ancestors. He passed the statues of old kings and queens of the North, of Starks long gone, their direwolves carved faithfully at their feet. Their vigilant, stone eyes seemed to follow him as he walked deeper into the crypts, past his forefathers and mothers, the ancient guardians of Winterfell’s legacy.

It was then that he saw her, like a blossom of blue satin and grey furs in the black earth.

Claere sat on the cold stone floor by the statues of his parents, Lord Rickon Stark and Lady Gillianne Glover, her small form dwarfed by the towering effigies. Candles burned softly around her in quiet vigil, casting a gentle glow over the garlands of winter roses she cradled in her lap. A sea of wilted, woven flowers lay swept to the side—a ritual she had tended to every night, and with a pang in his gut, he realized her abnormal habit had all been for his bygone parents.

His breath caught, a warmth spreading through his chest. She had been honouring them. His own parents. In a way that even he had long forgotten to do. Though why would she, of all people, care?

As he approached her, he heard her familiar song, her voice faint, carrying a resonant yet soothing melody through the crypt. They never rhymed anymore; just lines scrambled and sung to confound.

A rose of blue in the cold earth lay, A fire burned bright, Silver threads in the night. A crown of dreams, A heart of flame, Forgotten now, Yet still the same.

"Claere," he called softly, his voice echoing against the stone walls.

But she didn’t answer. She stayed motionless, her fingers deftly weaving the garlands, her eyes distant, lost in a trance-like reverie. Cregan stepped closer and gently cupped her shoulder.

“Love?” he murmured again, more intent.

This time, she stirred, blinking slowly as if emerging from a dream. Her gaze shifted up to him, soft and dazed. She rubbed at her eyes, her fingers stained with the petals of the roses.

As Cregan crouched beside Claere, the silence was thick, broken only by the distant drip of water echoing somewhere in the depths of Winterfell. He took her bare hands into his, startled by how frigid they were. The touch of her skin was like ice as if she'd been sitting there for hours. He blew gently into her fingers, trying to warm them.

"What are you doing down here alone?" he asked, concern lining his voice.

“They like to speak to me,” she whispered, her voice calm, distant, as though her mind were adrift in another realm. “I heard them the moment I crossed the threshold of the castle. They spoke your name.” She waited, eyes wide. "Did you hear that?"

Cregan's brow furrowed. "There is no voice but ours, love."

She looked away, mumbling, "I heard it."

There was a time when her words, her abnormal ways, would have unsettled him deeply. It was woven into their lives like her rose garlands, a constant. Her peculiar way of seeing the world was no longer alien to him—it had become familiar. Still, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet unease stir in his chest.

“Go on then. What else do they say?” he asked, more to humour her than out of belief, but the curiosity in his tone was real.

“I think they're calm,” she replied, her gaze drifting to statues of his parents. “Content. Now that you're here.”

Cregan exhaled, surprised by how much those words affected him. It was comforting in a way he hadn’t expected, though he didn’t believe in such things—spirits, voices from beyond. He wasn’t a man of superstition, but the idea that his parents might be at peace warmed a part of him he didn’t realize had gone cold.

“What do they say about their son? Do they kick up a big fuss?” he asked, his lips curving into a faint, teasing smile. He carefully balled the long garland she had weaved into a neat pile on her skirt.

“They’re proud,” Claere murmured, her voice gentle, as though the words had floated to her on the breeze. “Your mother—she calls you her little wolf. She wants to hold you once more.”

His heart stilled at that. Little wolf. His mother had called him that, when he was still small enough to crawl into her lap after a long day, his face buried in the scent of her hair. His chest tightened, the ache of loss rising up in his throat. Could Claere really hear them? Was there truth in her words, or was it all part of her unconventional mind?

Cregan lifted his gaze toward the stone faces of his parents, his father's chiselled jaw and his mother's serene expression were immortalized in cold marble, watching over him as they had in life. Claere's soft hum floated through the still air, and something in her melody seemed to stir the memories of those long gone. He couldn’t bear the weight of their unblinking eyes. His throat thickened, and he looked away quickly, the familiar ache of loss sharper than he’d prepared for.

“And my father?” he asked, his voice rough now, bearing apprehension now, the question almost catching in his chest.

“He knows you’ve transcended him,” she replied, her tone soft, as if the words were delicate things. “But he’s glad. He wishes he could be here to see you rule the North as he did once."

That broke something in Cregan. He felt the sting of tears behind his eyes, and before he could stop it, one escaped, rolling down his cheek. His father had always been a stern man, proud but distant, and those words, even if he believed they weren't real, cut deeper than he expected. He had been alone since three and ten, sparing no effort in being a man where he should've been a boy. Such was the duty of an early heir, he had grown up between burdening winters and blades.

Cregan blinked rapidly, turning his cheek to her, trying to clear his vision, but Claere saw it. Her expression shifted—confusion flickered across her features. She reached out, her fingers brushing the tear away with the lightest touch.

“Have I hurt you?” she asked, her voice uncertain, innocent in its concern.

Cregan shook his head, sniffing back the rest of his tears. He smiled softly at her, a smile that was half sorrow, half joy. "No, of course not."

"No?" she echoed.

“I’m grateful. I’m very happy.” His voice cracked as he laughed, almost in disbelief at the way she had managed to stir emotions long buried. "Although I'd rather be gelded than have you see me cry again."

Claere tilted her head, watching him with that dream-like gaze, her mind always half elsewhere. “Tears are the sign of a good heart,” she said simply, though there was still a hint of hesitation in her voice.

As Cregan's deep laugh trailed off, Claere’s gaze slipped to the flickering candle before her. She watched the flame, her fingers hovering near its light as though she could shape the glow with her will alone.

“They’ve gone silent,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a breath. “Since I returned from the Wall… the voices, they’re almost gone now.”

Her words chilled him in a way that had nothing to do with the cold of the crypts. He watched her fingers dance in the flame’s heated tip, and something about the way she spoke—so distant, so lost—made his chest constrict.

“I keep seeing these things. Awful things.” She still wouldn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame as though it held the answers she sought. “Visions, riddled with frozen fire, no men of women born, blue flames that burned cold, dragons—dead dragons—and spilt blood. Endless dark, unending night.”

Her voice was soft but steady as if recounting some terrible dream. The Wall, the omens, whatever visions or feelings had driven her—they had unsettled her in ways she wasn’t used to conveying.

Cregan swallowed, unable to suppress the shiver that ran through him. Claere rarely expressed her visions with such transparency, yet this time there was something raw in her tone, a dread he had never heard before. If only these people could truly see what she had to bear.

“I believed the lands past the Wall would show me the days of yore,” she continued, her words slipping from her lips like a confession. “I thought it would reflect what I see, but it didn’t. None of it. So now I think—”

She stopped herself, her voice catching in her throat, and for a long moment, she said nothing.

Cregan waited, his heart solemn with tension. Finally, Claere’s gaze lifted from the flame, and when her violet eyes met his, there was a tremor of fear in them, an emotion so unfamiliar in her usually distant, dream-like gaze that it struck him silent.

“I think it is things not yet come to pass,” she whispered, her voice tight, as though it pained her to say it. “I think… they’re coming. I don't know what to do. No one else can see." She shook her head, almost violently, and her hands trembled, her calm veneer fracturing before him. Tears welled at the corner of her eyes. “I cannot stop it, Cregan. It terrifies me.”

The vulnerability in her voice, the aching helplessness, shook him to his core. Claere, who had always been silent and intangible, now stood before him utterly mortal, fragile, and afraid. He had never seen her like this, not in all the time they’d been together. It was as though she carried a brewing storm on her shoulders, and she didn’t know how to face it alone.

Cregan’s instinct was immediate. He gently pulled her toward him with a shush, enfolding his arms around her, and gathering her into his chest.

“No, my love,” he whispered into her hair, his voice soothing. "I'm here. It's alright. They're just dreams."

She melted into him, her body trembling against his, her head resting against his chest. He stroked the side of her head gently, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breath. Her hands clung to the front of his cloak, desperate, as though his warmth was the only thing tethering her to the present. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his lips lingering there, as though willing his strength into her.

“The North has weathered long nights before,” he said quietly, his voice steady, filled with the same resolve that had been passed down through generations of Starks around them. “Stark blood runs deep in these stones. We’ve stood through the darkness, through cold that could break men’s bones. And yet, we stand. Every time, Claere.”

She looked up at him, her wide eyes searching his face, her breath still uneven but slowing.

"What are our house words?" he asked, as if reminding her.

"Winter is coming," she answered breathily.

“Winter is coming,” he echoed, his voice assertive yet tender. He cupped her face gently, his thumb brushing against her cheek as he looked into her eyes. “We will do what we must to defend the realm, through whatever comes. As we always have. You have nothing to fear.”

His words sank into her like warmth, thawing the icy fear that had gripped her. She exhaled, long and slow, her body finally relaxing into his arms. Cregan kissed her cheek, softer this time, feeling the shift in her, the tension ebbing away.

For a long moment, neither of them moved, holding each other in the flickering candlelights, surrounded by the silence of the crypts. The dead watched over them, but their presence no longer felt foreboding—it felt calm and peaceful, as though the ancient Starks could see and approve.

She nodded, her face resting against his chest once more, her breathing finally even. He could still sense the undercurrent of fear that rippled through her, but the worst of it had passed. His mind worked quickly, searching for a way to guide her thoughts away from the darkness she had spoken of.

Softly, he murmured against her hair, "There’s news from Dragonstone."

Claere shifted in his arms, lifting her head to look at him. The mention of Dragonstone sparked a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, enough to break the hold of the haunting visions.

"A raven arrived last night," he continued, his voice casual, as though easing her into something lighter. "Prince Jacaerys flies north on his dragon. He’ll be here within a fortnight."

Her lips parted as if she wanted to say more, but the thought seemed to drift away before she could grasp it. Something was grounding in the knowledge of Prince Jacaerys’ arrival—something beyond the shadows she had seen, a thread of the present to hold on to.

He gave her a slight squeeze, his thumb brushing a strand of her silver hair behind her ear, a playful glint in his eye. "We'll find out soon enough. But for now, let's get you warm. You'll turn into a sculpture yourself if you're here any longer."

Claere’s lips quirked, a touch of amusement flickering through the lingering shadows in her eyes. “A lady of ice.”

Cregan smirked. “Not on my watch.”

X

The fruits of labour are often hard-won, and in Claere’s case, it was quite literal. A month past, she had flown on Luna, disappearing into the night for three days. Although it had endlessly upset Cregan, upon her return, it was with the spoils of her journey—seeds from distant lands, collected with care and intent. These seeds were her gift to Winterfell’s glass gardens, her quiet revolt against the fatty northern diet.

Among them were golden beets from the Reach, hardy winter squash, and sweet, bright carrots from Highgarden. She’d also returned with seeds of hearty cabbages and turnips, the kinds of food that could survive even in the harsher climate of the North. And now, after weeks of tilling and patience, some of the plants had finally sprouted, tiny green shoots peeking through the soil like fragile promises of life.

But her project had not remained hers alone for long. Claere, with her quiet strangeness, had drawn the children of Winterfell into it, gradually involving them in nurturing the new glasshouse. The saplings became theirs as much as hers, and the little Northerners guarded them as fiercely as they did their direwolves. Though they laughed and played around her, tending to the glass gardens with dirt-smeared cheeks and eager hands, the adults stood back—watching with cautious, measured eyes.

Now, it called for a celebration. Claere had returned from an early morning flight on Luna, bringing with her the largest haul yet—sacks of ripe persimmons, plucked from the orchards of the Vale. The children gathered around her, eyes wide and filled with excitement. Persimmons were rare in the North, almost unheard of past the Twins, and to them, this was a treasure trove.

She stood there, composed and aloof, while the children crowded at her feet, clutching at her skirts.

"My lady," one small boy asked in awe, peering into the sack, "what kind of fruit is this?"

“Persimmons,” Claere told them. “From the Vale. If honeycomb were a fruit, it would be this.”

One of the girls hesitated, looking up with wide, curious eyes. "Persimmons. But why do they look like little jewels?"

Claere glanced down at the fruit in the child’s hand. “They are… in a way,” she mused, her fingers brushing the leathery skin of a persimmon. “Jewels of the trees. Careful not to crack your teeth on them.”

The children giggled, their awe unabashed. But from the edges of the courtyard, some of the adults watched the scene with guarded expressions. One of the mothers—an older woman with a stern face—made her way toward them, half-heartedly pulling her child back.

"My lady," the woman began cautiously, her tone respectful but wary, "your kindness knows no limit… but persimmons, foreign fruits—are they not better suited for lords and ladies’ tables? Perhaps the children ought to…?"

Claere turned her gaze to the woman, her eyes calm, as if considering the unspoken reluctance. She did not speak at first, only handed the sack to one of the boys who held it up for the others to reach.

“They’re fruits of the earth,” she said softly, “not gold meant to be hoarded. What grows must be shared. It's why the Glass Gardens are being built.”

There was a pause, tension still lingering in the air. A few of the men exchanged glances, unsure of this Targaryen's ways—so different from the daughters of the North they knew.

Then one of the fathers, a grizzled man with a thick beard, broke the silence with a short laugh. “As long as my son doesn’t bring more seeds to my house, we’ll thank you, my lady.”

His words loosened the air, drawing chuckles from others. The children cheered as they dug into the fruit, but the adults, though warmer now, still watched her carefully. In small, deliberate ways—through her gifts, her gentle efforts to nurture life in this land—she was inching closer, bridging the invisible divide between herself and the North.

"Come now, pups," a young lady led the children away with their happy squalls, "one for each. Share it with the others."

"Arrys took three! Fatty!"

"Hey, that's mine!"

"Mine's a little green!"

It was subtle, this shift. Like the first, almost imperceptible thaw after a long winter, when the snow begins to soften at the edges, and the hard ground yields just enough to suggest that spring might, one day, arrive.

Claere’s eyes lingered on the adults for a moment longer, as though she understood. She wasn’t sure she could ever be loved like one of their own. And while they still watched her warily, with eyes that carried centuries of cold caution, there was a slow, begrudging acceptance in their gaze. The kind of acceptance that wasn’t born out of understanding, but out of recognition—recognition that, for all her strange ways, she was not giving up.

“My lady!” A breathless guard stumbled toward her, his face flushed with urgency. He dropped into a quick bow, his words fumbling as they spilt out.

“Scouts have spotted a dragon. We believe... it’s your brother, the prince.”

Her brother. Jacaerys.

The news sent a ripple through Claere’s thoughts, pulling her out of the quiet reverie she’d fallen into. She nodded, dismissing the guard and strolling away from the castle entrance, and soon turned her gaze skyward, watching as Vermax circled in the distance, preparing to land. Luna twitched behind her, growling low, sensing another dragon’s presence but remaining calm as Vermax descended.

Jacaerys landed some distance away from Luna, cautious not to provoke the larger dragon. Vermax was a mere hatchling in comparison to Luna, poised by her rider protectively.

As her brother dismounted, Claere observed him from afar, her emotions a tangled web. She hadn’t seen him in many long months. The boy she remembered had been full of vigour and promise, but now, standing before her, Jacaerys had grown in ways she hadn’t fully anticipated.

The man who approached her was taller, his shoulders broader, his gait that of a prince who had known the significance of command. His dark hair, tousled by flight, framed a face more serious than it had once been. There was a formality to him, a distance that felt almost like the expanse between them, even though they were blood.

Their relationship had not always been like this—distant, formal. He was once her buffer against her vengeful uncles, Aegon and Aemond, and her safest confidante in the Red Keep. He only happened to sour to her presence after their mother, Queen Rhaenyra, had blissfully betrothed them when they were children of nine, for the strengthening of their bloodline and her irrefutable claim to the throne. It was declared null when her mother faced the threat of dispersion from Lord Corlys on Driftmark that she joined Laena Velaryon's daughters to her prince sons in holy matrimony.

Where Claere had somewhat bonded with her younger brothers Lucerys and Joffrey, Jacaerys had remained like a stranger thereafter. He had never been unkind to her, never prodded at her oddities, only stayed apathetic, their connection one of duty rather than affection. He had always seemed uncertain of how to approach her, and she had never sought him out. They had lived like shadows, passing by each other but never truly meeting.

“Sister,” Jacaerys greeted her upon reaching her, his voice polite, measured. He dipped his head, ever respectful, the heir to the throne. "How you've grown in mere moons. And so has Luna."

She imparted a brief nod. "Brother," she greeted back quietly. Her eyes darted to Vermax, his green-scaled dragon, beady eyes watchful of his rider. "Vermax has come to be formidable."

"Indeed," Jace said, sounding proud of himself, peeking back at his dragon. "You'll also be pleased to know that Tyraxes has finally taken to wing. Ought to see Joff instead of me next time."

Slightly hesitant, she asked, "And this time?"

"I've come to see how you're faring," and quickly included, "upon mother's request. As her envoy."

His eyes flashed down to her flat abdomen for a split second, possibly gauging the extent of a prosperous marriage. So far, he was not convinced. It had nearly been six moons, yet no cries of a Stark lordling sounded in the halls.

“I am well,” Claere answered, her tone just as restrained as his.

His dark eyes flicked toward the great castle, then back to her. “There have been… rumours. Whispers from the North that have reached the Queen’s ears. She was concerned.”

Rumours. She knew what he implied—the discontent among the Northerners, their ever-growing suspicion of her, the whispers of a Valyrian witch who crossed the Wall and lived to tell the tale. It had been expanding slowly, like frost creeping across the ground before winter.

“They matter little,” Claere replied, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jacaerys didn’t respond at first, his gaze sharp as he studied her. Then, with the smallest hint of reluctance, he responded, “I am still your brother, Claere. Marriage cannot dissolve that. I rule over Dragonstone with Baela and if you wish it, I will gladly have you back home or with our brothers in the Red Keep."

It wasn’t quite an offer, more like a suggestion left hanging in the cold air between them. A way out, should she want it. Simply renounce a vain, hopeless marriage and move on.

Claere’s eyes met his, and for a moment, she wondered if he meant it. Did her dear brother truly want her back, or was this merely a way to ease his guilty conscience? To not have suspected the consequences beforehand, before she was ever traded off to the unaccepting North? She glanced at Luna, standing watch behind her, and then back to Jacaerys.

A brief silence passed between them before he spoke again, his voice lighter, though still formal. “I'd like to speak to Lord Stark. Perhaps he'd have a response for the crown.”

X

The Great Hall of Winterfell felt colder than usual that evening. The large hearth blazed, but the warmth seemed to be swallowed by the heavy silence hanging between the three nobles seated at the long table. Cregan sat at the head, his posture relaxed yet every muscle tensed beneath the surface, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Claere on habit, who sat beside him, ever the silent enigma. Across from them, Jacaerys Velaryon sat straight-backed, his dark eyes flicking between his hosts, clearly working up to something but holding back—for now.

The tension was palpable, thick enough to slice through with a blade, but neither man addressed the looming unspoken questions yet. Claere seemed unconcerned, as she picked at the modest fare before her, her pale eyes focused on nothing in particular. She was present yet did not seem so, lost in her world.

Cregan noticed her silver crown of braids, how they were styled in the manner of a Southern lady, perhaps to butter up to her brother. He never thought he would infuriated over something as foolish as hair, and ought to chastise those handmaidens of hers who only worked around his cause.

Jace cleared his throat, breaking the silence as he reached for his goblet, swirling the golden ale inside. He offered a polite smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

"This beverage is excellent, my lord," Jace began, a tentative olive branch. "And the pie—'tis the heartiest I've had. Sustains the North, I’m sure. Though I can imagine it’s difficult for... some to thrive on such fare."

His gaze dashed briefly to Claere, lingering on her thinner frame. It wasn’t a pointed stare, but the implication hung in the air. Her weight loss, her difficulty sustaining herself on the limited northern diet—it was not lost on him.

Cregan’s jaw clenched, though his smile remained courteous. "We manage well enough," he said, his voice patient. "The Glass Gardens have begun to yield fresh crops. Our granaries our vast. We make sure every Northerner has everything they require come winter."

There was a subtle challenge in Cregan’s words, a quiet assertion of his control over his household and his care for his wife. The implication was clear: I’ve got it covered.

Jace gave a tight nod, his lips pressed thinly together. The conversation lulled back into awkward silence, the crackling of the fire and the clinking of cutlery the only sounds between them. Claere remained as she had been—detached, her pale eyes drifting from the flames in the hearth to the fruit on her plate.

Jacaerys hesitated before speaking again, as though weighing his next words carefully.

"Has Claere ever told you," he drawled, his tone lighter but carrying an undercurrent of something more, "that she and I are twins?"

Cregan’s gaze shifted to Jace, then to Claere, and back again. It rattled him, if only for a moment. Twins? It seemed impossible. Jacaerys, with his dark ringlets and strong build, bore the hallmarks of House Velaryon though, some whispered, his true father, Ser Harwin Strong. Claere, on the other hand, was the image of Old Valyria—silver hair, pale skin, violet eyes, as if fire and ice had mingled to create her. The stark contrast between them had always been striking, and now it seemed even more so. He simply deemed it unlikely at first glance.

"Yes, we were inseparable," the young prince continued, his tone cautious. "We shared the same womb, weaned from the same breast, and learned together as children. We were even betrothed for a time, like our ancestors before us."

Jace's eyes narrowed slightly as Cregan's fingers fisted, and though his tone remained neutral, there was an edge to his words. "But even after all that, there are things about my sister I still cannot begin to comprehend."

Cregan’s eyes darkened, understanding the implication. Jace wasn’t just talking about family ties; he was probing, testing for weaknesses, for fractures in the foundation of Claere’s place in Winterfell. It was a subtle attempt, cloaked in brotherly concern, but Cregan was no fool.

"Aye, that may be," Cregan replied evenly, leaning back in his chair, his fingers tapping against his goblet. "But what man can claim to entirely understand a woman, even one he’s known all his life? Claere may be... finding her feet, but that doesn’t make her any less at home here."

Jace raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint, sardonic smile. "You speak as if she’s already oriented herself here, Lord Stark. Though from what I’ve heard, not all in the North share your sentiment."

The jab was delivered mildly, but it hit its mark. Cregan’s expression hardened slightly, his palm tight around his fork, though his tone remained calm. "Winterfell is nearly frozen over. It takes time for new blood to warm itself to these halls. But we’ve had Targaryens here before, and they’ve got by just fine."

"Mm," Jace hummed into his glass, "dragonblood runs hotter than you can imagine."

"Makes it easier then."

Jace leaned forward, setting his goblet down. "That’s just it, isn’t it? Claere is no mere Targaryen. She’s my twin. She has just as much claim to our mother’s throne as I do."

The implicit tension snapped into something sharper, more dangerous. The Iron Throne. The claim. It hung between them like a storm on the horizon, unstated but ever-present. Should sides be drawn in the future, blood could be spilt—not over affection, but over power, the oldest and most treacherous currency. He could imagine it: Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, Claere Targaryen, and her king consort, the King in the North, Cregan Stark. It tasted foul on his tongue, withered to ashes as soon as it appeared. Claere was queen, here. She was the winter's queen, a fire that would burn a beacon in the North.

Cregan’s eyes narrowed, though his expression remained stoic. "Are you suggesting something, my prince? Sowing seeds of war in my soil, possibly?" he asked, his voice low, enduring as a mountain before the storm. "Because it sounds as though you’re questioning my lady's fealty to her home."

Jace’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t back down. "I’m simply reminding you of who she is. And that, as much as you may think you understand her, there are parts of Claere that no one can reach." His gaze drifted to Claere then, who sat as still as stone, her eyes on the flickering flame. "Not even me."

Cregan studied Jacaerys for a long moment before turning his gaze to Claere. She had been a quiet, odd presence throughout this verbal sparring match, content to let the two men duel with words over her head. But now, as Jace’s words hung in the air, she finally looked up, meeting Cregan’s eyes with her own.

Cregan leaned back in his chair, a calculated look forming as his hand rested on Claere’s thigh.

His voice lowered, carrying an undercurrent of challenge but framed in civility. "It seems we find ourselves at an impasse. Perhaps a better question, my prince, is not who has known Claere through six moons or sixteen years, but who has tried to understand her the most."

Bitterness flickered in Jace's gaze. He leaned forward, not willing to be outdone. "It’s not the little things that bind people. It’s blood, shared history. We came into this world together."

Cregan’s lips curved into a cold, knowing smile. "Aye, you did. But who stands by you in the darkest hour matters, not who was there when the sun first rose."

Jace’s face flushed with frustration. He glanced at Claere, who sat impassive as ever, and then back to Cregan, clearly at a loss. It seemed like he wanted to argue for a moment, but nothing came. The Stark lord's words had landed.

"Jace is right," she said quietly, her voice soft but collected. "He doesn't know me fully, nor do I know him as I should." Her eyes shifted toward her brother, a faraway sorrow touching her expression. "We've spent years apart—fates pulling us in different directions. He's not wrong about that."

Jace straightened up, a gleam of triumph surfacing in his expression, but before he could speak, Claere turned her gaze back to Cregan, her voice clearer, firmer.

"But that doesn’t imply I am not where I am meant to be."

Jace's smile faded. Her words were simple, undefined as ever, but they carried the gravity intended. It was a quiet reminder that she had chosen Winterfell, that she had chosen Cregan. And though her ways might be unconventional, she was committed to that choice.

Cregan’s expression softened slightly as he looked at her, the tension in his stance easing. Every inch of him swelled with pride at her words.

"I belong here now, Jacaerys," she declared to him.

"These people whisper at you like cravens, sister," Jace told her irately. "They have no regard for the power at your helm. Seven hells, you ride the White Dread. Yet they disparage you and hail you a witch."

"I will not have her leave her home for it," Cregan cut in sharply, his words slicing through the thickening tension.

Jace’s lips pressed into a thin line, his earlier confidence ebbing into frustration. "Home?" he repeated, the word laced with disbelief. “She is of the blood of Old Valyria. She belongs in a throne room, with her dragon soaring over Blackwater Bay—not wasting away in the most forgotten corners of the realm.”

"Wasting away?" Cregan’s voice dropped to a deadly stillness, his eyes narrowing. “She flourishes here, despite whatever Southern comforts you think she’s lost.”

Jace’s gaze sharpened, unwilling to back down. "Look at her, Stark. She's barely a shadow of—"

"Stop."

Claere’s voice cut through the rising tension, abrupt and shrill, though her tone was calm. Both men fell silent.

For a heartbeat, neither Jace nor Cregan moved, their stances locked in defiance, accusations hanging gravely in the air. The room seemed to shrink, the air charged between them as if the two men stood on the brink of war than the moment itself.

Cregan’s jaw tightened, his gaze darkening as he regarded the prince. His voice dropped to a dangerously calm whisper, more powerful in its restraint.

“You speak of power as if it is the only thing that holds this realm together. But it’s not power that keeps this castle standing. It’s hard work, loyalty, honour. Do you think strength alone carried Winterfell through the long winters and centuries?”

Jace’s eyes flicked to Claere, then back to Cregan, the frown on his face deepening. “Loyalty?" he said, his voice tinged with scepticism. "Yes. But loyalty can break as easily as ice, especially when those in the shadows do not see strength."

“They see what I choose to show them,” Cregan shot back, his voice steady, unflinching. “And they see a queen standing beside me. She is spoken for in my name. That’s all they need to know.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy as if the very stones of Winterfell had taken a breath and held it. Jace’s brow furrowed, his jaw tight as he tried to digest what Cregan said. Queen? The word hung in the air between them, a title not formally bestowed, yet it carried a deeper truth.

Jace’s gaze flicked between them—Cregan, with his unyielding confidence, and Claere, with her quiet, ethereal presence. He tried to grasp it, to make sense of how this odd, reserved sister of his had become something more in the eyes of these Northern people. For all their whispered words, all their doubts and suspicions about her, they still regarded her as something more than a mere consort. She had carved out a place here, without needing to raise a sword or a dragon in her defence. She was no longer a pawn at their mother's behest.

Jace exhaled, his hands resting on the table, his earlier edge of confrontation slipping away.

"I have only wanted what's best for her. And to my mother, it was to bring her back to Dragonstone. Live out her days as she wished, rid off calumnies." Finally, he nodded, settling into a reluctant acceptance. “Now I see... she's not alone."

Cregan’s gaze was unflinching as he spoke. “She never was.”

Jace looked between them, Cregan’s words settling over the table like a thick winter’s snow. Claere’s eyes met her brother's in a fleeting but meaningful look.

Jace, for all his formality, nodded, understanding more than words could say. "Then we place our trust in your hands, my lord, and the princess' peace of mind."

And the Stark, ever the wolf in his den, would guard her with teeth bared if need be. Cregan’s hand tightened on Claere’s, his voice low and relentless.

“You’ll leave Lady Stark in the only hands she needs.”

X

Claere stood in the doorway of Jace’s chambers, her presence barely announced by the soft scrape of her shoes on stone. In her arms, a basket, small and modest, yet unmistakably precious—the glint of warm dragon eggs nestled within.

Jace looked up from his desk, startled by the sight of her, and rose slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. "Sister."

“For the new princess,” she announced, her voice low, measured.

She offered the basket, her fingers lingering on the handle for a moment before retreating into the folds of her gown. Her gaze remained fixed on the gleaming eggs as if their presence alone carried the message.

Jace blinked, surprise flashing across his face before he laughed, though the sound lacked true mirth.

“Of course. You always seem to know more than most,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “No one’s spoken of the babe—not even to the Queen.”

Her lips barely moved as she responded, her tone distant, almost cryptic. “The winds carry luck and warnings alike.”

"We've named her Laena."

She inclined her head ever so slightly. “An auspicious name. May she prosper.”

Her words were curt and formal, as though there was nothing more between them than this exchange. The air between them felt colder, stretched thin by years and decisions not their own. He had always hoped for more—some kind of familiarity, some bridge between their shared past—but that hope had been dashed time and time again. The rift, born of their mother's scheming and expectations, had only deepened over the years.

“I wish you good fortune, brother,” Claere said finally, her voice flat, the words of courtesy hollow.

Jace sighed, the weight of lost years heavy on him. He had wanted to speak with her, to find some common ground, but she had always been like this—elusive, indistinct, a world apart even when she stood in the same room. Time had slipped away, and no ravens sent across the vast expanse of that distance could ever reclaim what was lost.

"Lord Stark seems quite fond of you," he tried to say, softening his tone. "I am glad you've found someone to treasure. I also hear that you crossed the Wall alone—"

"The hour grows late. I should leave you to your rest." So blunt, a blade cutting through any illusion of warmth between them.

"Claere, wait," he muttered as she turned to leave.

His sister paused, though her back remained to him, her silence stifling. She did not look at him, and yet he felt her eyes upon him, offering no solace, only the unyielding distance that had grown between them.

Jace hesitated, searching for the right words. “The throne… it’s a cage, not a crown. You know that as well as I. You don’t need it. You don’t want it.”

Claere turned, her gaze indistinct, as if she were dissecting his meaning without revealing any of her own. He took a breath, willing her to understand.

“We were born the same. But only one of us can sit up there. And you’ve never belonged in its shadow. You’re beyond it.”

The silence that followed was thicker, heavier than before. His words hung in the air, an unspoken plea for her to step aside, to yield something that, by all rights, was hers to claim.

She said nothing, but her silence screamed louder than words, and in that void, Jace felt the weight of all that had passed between them, the years lost, the closeness forsaken.

"I'm sorry, sister," he admitted, his voice a soft plea. "For all of it. I wish it did not come to this."

She raised her brows, her eyes sharp as violet shards. "Come to what?"

Jace faltered, caught off guard by the calmness of her tone, the way her words sliced through his own hesitation. He swallowed hard, searching for something to grasp onto. "This anonymity. Our own mother's ambition has turned us into strangers."

Claere's lips lifted to a bleak smile. "Our mother did not do that, Jacaerys. You did."

She stood there, her face unmoving, the silence thick between them. There was no anger in her eyes, but neither was there forgiveness. Just that same cool, detached calm. And with that, she turned and left, leaving him alone in the echo of his apology.

He stared after her, the basket of eggs still warm in his hands, and the cold truth of her departure settling like frost, realizing that whatever bridge he had hoped to build between them had crumbled long ago.

X

As night closed in, Cregan and Claere's bedroom was bathed in darkness, save for the pale glow of moonlight sloping through the windows, casting long shadows over the stone floor.

Cregan lay awake, his mind restless, replaying the tension of the evening with Jace. He’d handled it as he always did—with authority and force. But had he thought of her? Claere had said little at dinner, her quiet presence always hard to read. Yet Cregan couldn’t shake the feeling he should have asked her, should have drawn her into the conversation instead of battling it out alone.

Beside him, Claere stirred. He watched her wake from the pillows, her bare feet silent against the cold floor as she moved, a familiar routine. Her nightdress clung to her form, delicate and flowing, the pale fabric shifting with each step. She drifted toward her harp—a massive, exquisite instrument that seemed to be attached to her as much as her dragon did. He'd watched her do this countless times, slipping into her world of music as if it were the only place where she could find peace.

Cregan’s eyes followed her as she sat, the harp resting between her legs. She flicked her long, silver hair over her shoulder, tucking the loose strands behind her ear before her fingers found the strings. Each pluck sent a soft note into the air, a lulling melody filling the room, soothing and haunting all at once. Her eyes stared unseeingly at the carpet as she hummed, a low, wordless tune that rose and fell with the notes. Her fingers danced across the strings effortlessly, creating music that seemed to be born of the night itself.

She was the vision of every man’s dream—stunning, elusive. And yet, even as she sat there, calm and poised, Cregan could feel her unease, buried beneath that impassive exterior. He knew her anxieties, could sense them in the way her shoulders tensed, in the small tremor in her breath. He should have asked her, should have given her the space to speak her thoughts, to let her feelings surface.

Quietly, he pushed off the furs and moved toward her, sitting behind her on the long bench. His broad hands slid over her waist, firm yet tender, grounding her as he drew closer. Claere’s fingers continued to dance over the strings, but he felt the stillness in her body, the way her breath caught as his presence nudged against her. He straddled her from behind, thighs sweeping hers, his chin resting on her shoulder, carefully sweeping her hair aside to expose the pale curve of her neck. Soft, lazing kisses followed—his lips grazing her skin, teeth teasing in between. The touch was enough to break her concentration; her fingers faltered, missing the next note. Her humming stilled, but she didn’t pull away.

"It's as if you were made to indulge me," he murmured against her skin, the words low and warm as he kissed her ear, drawing her closer to him with every word.

A soft smile tugged at Claere’s lips. "Not long ago, this used to scare you witless."

Cregan chuckled, a low sound that rumbled against her back, his lips pressing more firmly into her cheek. “Maybe earlier,” he admitted, his breath hot against her skin, “but now. Now I think of immensely bold acts I'd like to see play out.”

His hands slid up her sides, pulling her in closer, as though she was the only thing that could still his thoughts. He pushed another kiss at the seam of her jaw, teeth sinking in to tug at it.

"Do you want it, love?" he rasped.

Her fingers idly plucked at the gold strings. "You?"

"You already have me. I meant the Iron Throne."

Claere’s fingers stilled on the harp strings, the delicate melody faltering, as though his offer had reached even the instrument.

Cregan had always been a man of ancient power, cold winds, and the endless stretches of the North—they were in his blood as much as his duty to his people. He had never wanted the games of the South, the crown’s politicking, the endless pursuit of power. All he had ever wanted was to serve his house and to care for the woman he had sworn his heart to.

But as he held Claere close, her warmth seeping into him in the quiet of the room, his mind was at war with itself. For her, he would march on King’s Landing, he would challenge any lord, any crown, if she asked it. And that thought ate at him, for it wasn’t a war he desired—it was her. Only her.

“I'd give it to you when the time comes,” he whispered again, reluctance carefully concealed. He pressed another kiss into the soft curve of her jaw, his breath heavy against her skin. “If you said it, I’d rally all the houses under my yoke, raise my banners and claim what’s rightfully yours. I'll lay all of Westeros at your feet.”

Her body tensed beneath his touch, but she said nothing at first. The silence stretched, and it unsettled him. He felt her thinking, felt her calculating in that quiet way she had. She always had a way of making him question himself without uttering a word.

“You would march south for me?” she finally asked, her voice low, like a ripple across still water.

Cregan's hands gripped her waist more firmly as he processed her quiet words. She hadn't given him a direct answer, not about the Iron Throne, not about power or the realms beyond the North. But there was something in her silence, the way her fingers had resumed their light plucking at the strings of the harp, her eyes half-lidded in thought. His heart clenched, torn between duty and desire.

His voice was a low rumble, roughened by the cold and tension. "Aye."

"Then what?" she mused.

He was evidently thrown. "You... you could have it all—power, praise. No one would ever question your place. They’d fear you, respect you. The entire realm."

She paused, her hands resting against the harp strings, but her face remained unreadable. After a moment, she tilted her head slightly, her silver hair brushing his chin.

"And what would you do then?" she asked. "Once we have seized the Red Keep, and slain my brother and his heir, would you rule by my side, or would you abandon me in that gold cage with bloodstains?"

His jaw clenched as the simplicity behind her cruel words settled.

"There must always be a Stark at Winterfell," she claimed in a mumble, her tone unyielding, almost teasing. "Would you leave me to be poisoned by the court of vipers while you return home?"

He swallowed, his throat tight. The truth of her question was too clear. The North was in his blood, a responsibility that was older than any crown. And yet, for her, he had entertained the unimaginable. He could see it in her eyes now—the depths of her meaning, the question he hadn’t fully understood.

“You fit in here, with me," she said softly, her fingers brushing over his wrist, still resting on her waist. "This is the only place I’ve ever truly felt at peace. The North may whisper against me, but it has been kinder to me than any throne ever was."

Cregan let out a slow breath, his hand sliding up to her throat. The magnitude of her words pulled at him, grounding him in a way no talk of crowns or power could. He urged her cheek against his forehead, seeking warmth in her closeness.

"Here is good," she murmured, cupping his jaw. "Here, where the cold is real and not the cruelty of men."

And for the first time since he had offered her the world, he understood the answer. It was never about gold, crowns, or kingdoms. It was about the home they had made together, in the harsh, unyielding North.

Cregan pressed a lingering kiss against the pulse of her neck as if drawing strength from the steady rhythm beneath her skin. “You’re my queen, always,” he whispered, the words no longer about crowns or thrones.

At that moment, he knew he needed no banners, no throne to claim. He had already won the greatest battle of all—he had her.

Claere's lips curved, her hand tracing the shadow of his beard.

"A queen without a crown," she murmured, more to herself, the playful glint still present. "And without subjects, save perhaps you."

He laughed deeply, the sound rumbling against her skin before he glanced at the harp resting before them. With a grin tugging at his lips, Cregan reached for it, his large frame seemed out of place with the delicate instrument, but he was undeterred.

“Or I presume,” Claere teased, her back leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his chest. "The King in the North who fancies himself a minstrel?"

Cregan plucked a string awkwardly, the sound that followed more of a discordant twang than music. He winced but smiled, undaunted.

“There’s more to me than swords and axes, you know," he pointed out. "I am quite the bard myself. Listen to this."

He cleared his throat to sing out in a low-pitched voice, fumbling with the strings and producing another off-key note. Claere listened eagerly, holding all the stars in the sky captive momentarily.

Claere, oh, sweet Claere, She plays like a queen, Every note is like a spell, And here I am, A loopy fuckin' fool, Breaking her strings Oh, she hides her laugh well!

Claere burst into laughter, hiding her face behind her hands, a rare sound that filled the hushed space between them, and Cregan looked even more pleased with her reaction than his musical attempt.

“You’ve got that laugh locked away like a prize, don’t you?”

“I don’t laugh at just anything,” she said, her voice warm but with that familiar edge of wit.

Cregan arched a brow. “I’m special then?”

"Very much."

Moving close and her hands over his, she guided his fingers to the proper strings, her touch gentle, her movements graceful. Together, entwined, they coaxed a soft, sweet melody from the harp.

Cregan barely cared for the music. His focus was entirely on her—her warmth, the way her fingers danced across his own, the rare smile that hadn’t left her lips for a long time. How wondrous would it be to be stuck here, this way, with nothing but time to keep them apart?

“I admit defeat,” he murmured, his voice low, amused. “I think the harp is yours, love.”

Claere’s smile softened as she continued to guide his hands. "A queen with a harp," she mused, her voice low and warm. "Perhaps that’s all I require."

Cregan, eyes crinkling with a smile, leaned in closer, his breath against her ear. “That, and me.”

"Perhaps..."

Claere laughed, a soft, clear sound, and kissed him, her warmth banishing any lingering tension. He moved his grinning lips with hers, holding her safe in his palms, now truly untouchable.

"I’ll settle for just you," she whispered.

X

I'm opening my inbox for asks for one-shots on Claere and Cregan! I'm not sure how that works, but I'll learn as I go :)

a question for my kind ones: if Cregan and Claere had a date night, what do you think that would look like? go as wild as you can!

[ taglist: @pearldaisy , @thatkindofgurl , @theadharablack , @cherryheairt , @beingalive1 , @oxymakestheworldgoround , @tigolebittiez , @cosmosnkaz , @justdazzling , @lv7867 , @piper570 ] -> thank you for your endless support everyone!

[roseofithaca]

The Cave

Elysabeth (my oc) helps Rogh deal with a major loss.

-

The roof had been on its way out for a while. Every night it seemed to creek a little bit louder. At first it had been terrifying, waking at midnight to the impending fear that the house was about to collapse upon them as they rested. Then, as the days passed, they began to place bets on how much longer it would last. Lyssie had to give the Danish builders credit, they built their homesteads to last.

Luckily, when it finally collapsed, it had been during the day, while they'd both been out on a walk. They'd returned close to sunset, Lyssie perched atop Rogh's shoulders as usual, to the sight of their shared bed buried beneath the pile of thatched reeds.

Elysabeth had let out a mournful sigh at the sight.

"Oh well. It had a good innings, it did." She'd said as she slipped to the ground, finding her balance on her good leg.

Rogh had grunted, speech still a work in progress for the poor man.

He bent forward a bit, as he often did whenever Lyssie dismounted. The temptation clearly there to regress to walking on his knuckles.

Tapping Lyssie's arm to get her attention, he lifted a finger to gently stroke the spot beneath her eye.

She smiled; "Worry not, sweet thing, I not be sad. T'is only rocks and straw. What good that be to us now?"

Rogh huffed and lifted his paw to the sky beginning to pinken above them.

"Lys'beh. Need...sha-? Sh'ed?" He rolled his tongue as he tried to find the words.

"Shelter?

He nods.

Lyssie rolled her shoulders; "We nots feel the weather. It make no difference to our slumber. Did it to thee?"

Her wild companion looks down. Even if he had the ability to speak as easily as he once did, there wouldn't be a simple answer. Yes, he slept for thousands of years beneath the treetops and the stars, long before any houses were built on the land. When the new people came and made their own caves from the mud, it did feel somehow more comfortable to sleep inside, even if it made no difference. The illusion of safety was enough.

A bit like Fire. True, he could no longer feel the heat, his fingers could not be burned by the kiss of the flames. But being close to one was enough to bring back that memory of what warmth felt like.

But then came the Roman soldier. Then Moonah took away his friends. And suddenly the illusion was snatched away. Home became Prison.

He slept peacefully when he'd escaped, when he'd been accepted by the Pack. But in doing so he'd had to sacrifice such a large of piece of his soul. So big that he lost the ability to dream.

All that had changed when Lyssie Cub - Elysabeth - found him. He'd returned to the house for her, because she deserved somewhere proper to rest her head. And he'd been lucky enough to be invited to share that space. What would become of them now without it?

Lyssie's hand touches his cheek, jerking him 'awake'.

"Did thou gets lost in thy head 'gain?" She asked, kindly.

He grunted. It happened less recently, or so she seemed to think. As she rubbed at his mane, he leaned into her touch.

"I is sure others will come in time. Build us some nice new houses. Oooh, maybe even a castle!"

"Wha'....cass-ell?" He asked.

She shrugged; "Not the foggiest idea! Thought I dids see one once. Turned out to just be a big ol' windmill."

Rogh tilted his head; "Windy...mill?"

Lyssie chuckled. One thing at a time.

The heap of straw and reeds turned out to make for a decent, extra large bed. It made little sense to search for a spot in the woods rather than to stay put and adapt.

Lyssie came to appreciate the beauty of falling asleep beneath the Heavens themselves. With Rogh curled at her side, she still felt safe despite the lack of a ceiling. Her one friend may lack for many things, but she trusted in his primal strength and his promise to protect her.

Each night, they look up and trace the patterns in the stars.

Rogh draws a shape with his finger and attempts to mime it to her.

"A bird?" She frowns, leaning on her elbow.

Her ancient friend grunted and shook his head. He then let out a loud, familiar call into the ether.

"Oh! A rooster?" She grinned; "Oh yes, I do sees the three wiggly bits on its there head. Hehe, ne'er dids find out what they be called. Thought they were its hat."

Rogh chuckles, roughly, chest heaving in short bursts as it often does when he tries to laugh.

They carry on the game until one of them falls asleep, the other often not too far behind.

Elysabeth often wakes curled against Rogh's side, parts of his furs draped over her like a blanket. It's almost as comfy as the thin straw mattress and tattered pelts that made up her bed when she was a living in her parents' hovel.

When she wakes that fateful morning, there are no furs, nor a protective arm draped around her shoulders.

She wakes to the sound of sharp barking and what must be....construction work?

What?

"NO!! NO, STOP! MAN, STOP!"

Rogh?

Rubbing at her eyes, she pushes herself up, growing alert to the patter of rain around her. A silver crease shines in the grey clouds above, hiding the morning sun.

She turns her head to the sound of the commotion rumbling from across the field.

"Hurry it up, lads! Looks like a storm is brewin'." A foreman in a brown cap barks at three younger men weilding large hammers.

"Doin' our best, sir, the devil built his temple to last!"

"Ah that be why the priest did bless our tools. Pagan craft be no match for the water of our Lord."

They lifted their hammers high and brought them down to strike the...

Oh no.

Her Rogh was there amongst them, throwing himself between their swings at the great standing stones he holds in so much reverence. Each time the hammer passes through him causes him to growl and heave with severe discomfort. And yet he refuses to move aside, as if hoping at any second to become corporeal.

Their tools began to chip away at the stones, until cracks run through like veins. Each successful strike makes Rogh cry out, as if it hurt far more than being hit himself.

"Rogh! Rogh, come to me!" She calls out, hobbling over as quick as she could.

Her words don't seem to reach him.

It's been years since she's ever seen him look so distressed. Almost as bad as his fits and nightmares.

One of the great stones crumbles in half, its beautifully crooked tip falling to pieces on the grass.

"NO! NO!" Rogh slams his paws into the ground.

The clouds begin to rumble. Elysabeth turns her gaze skyward as the world begins to darken.

"Looks like it's gonna start coming down hard, boss."

"Just a bit of rain. C'mon, it'll soften up the rocks. Big swings now! Imagine ye be beating Satan himself back down to Hell!"

Lyssie cringes at their words. She had once believed, as they and all her village had, that the stones were accursed, built by godless savages. But in all the years she had been trapped here, she'd seen them through the eyes of her companion. Ancient relics set up to honour the magic of the Earth.

For Rogh, his precious moon goddess.

She watched him now, back on all four limbs, just as when she'd first met him. Hackles raised, teeth bared, eyes burning with primal rage towards the men. As rabid as a dog frothing at the mouth.

Throwing caution to the wind, Elysabeth tried to approach, reaching out her hand.

"Rogh...Come now, sweet thing. Try to calm thyself-."

Thunder smashed through the clouds.

Lyssie saw the rivets of blue light at the tips of his fur and hair. What dark magic was this?

One of the men swings again, destroying the bottom half of the rock. His brothers all slapped him on the back to congratulate him.

Rogh roared. The sky opened.

A fork of light flashed before her, spearing itself through Rogh's chest. He screamed, the grass scorching beneath his paws. Elysabeth stumbled back, toppling onto the ground.

All the men dropped their tools and jumped back, trembling.

"Bloody hell! Did you see how close that was?!"

"Christ, we were inches away from being smited!"

"Did none of thee see the shape? A beast of light, I swear, t'was right there!"

Rogh roared again, another fork of light coming down, this time just outside the circle.

Finally, the men scarper off.

Lyssie pushed herself up and tried to approach again.

"Rogh. They be gone now. T'is over..." She said, gently.

He whipped his ragged mane around to face her, jaw clenched, as furious as she'd ever seen. All the hairs on his mane stood up from the energy coursing through him.

Most terrifying of all, that which caused her to flinch in fear, were the shining balls of blue white light in his eyes. Not human. Not even animal. Something....demonic.

The thunder sounded again. Would he call down the fiersome light from the sky again? Would he care if it hit her?

Does he even recognise her right now?

"Rogh...My Rogh, please...." She squeaked, suddenly feeling her true physical age. Three and ten. Barely a maiden.

The snarl in his lip went slack as the muscles around his eyes stopped twitching.

He blinked. He opened his mouth.

"Ly...Lys'beh...?"

She nodded, but she could not stop how her body trembled.

Rogh frowned, then looked down at his paws, then turned back towards the desecrated stone circle. Smoke was still rising from the burned patches of grass.

"No...no, no, no...." He began to weep, clutching at his hair.

"Rogh. T'is okay. Is over now." She tried to comfort.

But when her hand went to touch his arm, he whined and moved away, slinking off towards the woods.

"ROGH! Rogh, do nots leave me! Please!"

But for the first time, he did not heed her call. As if he was determined to be as far away from her as possible.

Lyssie grit her teeth. Fat chance of that.

Like it or not, they were all each other had in this damned purgatory. She put all her strength into her good leg and began to limp through the broken stone circle.

"Old goddess of the moon, if ye do exist, please empower me to reach thy faithful servant. He does not deserve to be abandoned." She prays aloud before going onward into the forest.

Afraid.

Lyssie Cub had looked...afraid. Afraid of him.

Even in his darkest moments, times when the voices in his head became too loud and his vision became shrouded, she'd never hesitated to come close to, to lay her little hands upon his temples.

He can't quite remember what happened. Just the anger, the rage, at seeing those men destroy the Moonah Stone. The frustration that bubbled up from not being able to stop them. He wanted to make them pay...because Moonah would turn her wrath upon him if he did not try. Red mist had fallen over his eyes.

For one brief moment, he let the wolf take over again. It allowed him to wield Sky Fire. He wanted them all to burn...

Not her. He hadn't even realised she was there until it was too late.

Oh, Lyssie Cub. He's so, so sorry.

She doesn't need to worry about him now. He'll stay away, stay in this ancient cave, one he hasn't used in centuries, mostly hidden behind shrubs and ivy.

His cubs had slept here once. His sister and cousins too. All curled together, safe and warm, protected from the bitter rain.

So long ago...What would they think of him now? Would little Pin, Kya, Pek and Sol have the same fear in their eyes as Lyssie Cub? Would they think their Fada a monster?

He never should have left. He never should have left them to go on that hunt.

Is he wrong to leave Lyssie Cub on her own?

No. She strong, even stronger than him. Even with her leg torn to pieces, she doesn't need him. Safer without him. He only cause trouble. She still only cub, should not be having to take care of him, should be the other way around. And he doesn't know for certain when the next thing will trigger his emotions to call down Sky Fire.

Not worth the risk. Making sure Lyssie Cub is safe all that matters. Even if it means never seeing her again.

"There you is! Silly old thing."

Rogh raised his head toward the entrance.

Lyssie smiled as she hobbled forward, passing through the ivy without a care.

He frowned; "Wa...H-how you-?"

There's a soft grumble outside the cave. His nose picks up the scent of a familiar bear, a haggard elderly one that perishes recently. Harmless.

"She may has led me to thee. Was worried about thee too." Lyssie says, wryly.

Figures. She is as adapt with communicating with animals as he is now. Gone are the days where she would cower from ghosts of ancient beasts on this land.

Rogh grunts and curls against the far wall, dipping his head.

"M-me...no wan'..." He motioned his hands and gestured toward Lyssie.

"No want me?"

Not her. Just...no want anyone. Should be alone. Safer.

Still, she shuffles closer. He closes in on himself, appearing smaller. Unthreatening.

"Talk to me, sweet thing. Please. I know it must has been awful to see what they did to thy stones."

How can she still want to comfort him? Doesn't she care that she could have been seriously hurt because of him?

Lyssie kneels next to his spot, the ground carpeted with old leaves.

"Moo-nah Ston..." He shook his head, "They...a-always bee...always wi' Rogh."

Eight thousand years, he's helped to guard that sacred site. Always praising Moonah at every eclipse and esbat. He'd become convinced that was why he was there, for them. Moonah wanted him to watch over Her hallowed grounds.

If there was no Moonah Stone, what would happen now? Would She abandon him too? Disappear from the sky, leave him without good light?

"Me...scared, Ly'beh." He confesses, ashamed of having to spill such words to a child.

"I understand, dear Rogh. I woulds have felt the same seeing a church raided by bandits. But the gods surely have bigger concerns than stones and buildings, don't ye think?"

Moonah...not care about Her stones? What was the point of them then?

"Thou can still praise Her, She not go anywhere. And neither shall I."

He raises his head to see her smile.

Rogh rubs at his fur in shame; "Sor'y...Ly'beh. Me not...not know...zzz.". He mimics the sound of the Sky Fire light rippling through his furs.

"Do nots fret about that. Ye did not bring any harm to me, sweet thing."

That's not the point. He almost did. Closer than he'd ever want.

Lyssie smirks; "Was thou going to keep this here cave all to thyself and leaves me to the elements?"

He whined and shook his head. That wasn't the reason!

"Ly-beh...better...outside." He tries to say, gesturing to the entrance. Shouldn't be shut away in the dark. Cub needs to thrive under sun and be free.

"Wrong, dear Rogh. We is both better with each other. Insides or out."

Tears prick at his eyes. He doesn't deserve her loyalty.

But when she rubs at his head again, he can't resist leaning into her touch. All the static must have left his hair by now.

"C'mon, sweets. Lay down now. They dids wake thee up too early. We'll stay up late tonight and say a prayer at the circle." She promises.

Yes. He'll do his best to make it up to Moonah. Always show his thanks for Her being there...and bringing him friends like Lyssie Cub.

Rogh curls up on the ground, Lyssie leaning against him as she massages him into a much needed nap. When he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he's back taking a rest after a long hunt. In his mind's eye, he can nearly see Kya cub trying to help her Fada relax by rubbing herbs against his head, her little face smiling amidst her puffy fox furs.

Silly Fada. It not Moonah Ston you here to look after.

[siderods]

OC Post 9 - Out Of The River

Time for a throwback! Out Of The River was the first set of train ocs entirely seprate from thomas that I ever made. This was like beginning of covid times, and i've been iterating on it ever since. This is before I had Trainz or Rolling Line, so all of these guys were artisinally crafted in google drawings while I was in school.

Marlow - The POV character, Marlow is a 2-8-0 built in the early 20th century by a small freelance workshop. He works bringing stone from the main quarry the story is set in to the port of Borenbouth. He's the oldest of 7 siblings, none of which he knows the fate of. However, caring for his younger siblings helped him develop his level head. Despite how caring and strong he is, Marlow doesn't react well to sudden changes.

Kyd - Marlow's best friend, Kyd is a loose cannon on the deck. An Arnov (fictional company)- built 0-4-0, Kyd works shunting trucks through the quarry sidings. He like Marlow's company, and usually rambles on to him for hours on end. Otherwise, Kyd likes running around and making trouble, often with my rhyme or reason. He is he Max to Marlow's Sam, if you get my meaning.

Amy - A freelanced Andrew-Barclay oil burning 0-6-0, Amy isn't very talkative. She was thrown into the Arnov vs. Barclay conflict from day one, and finds the whole thing makes her kinda uncomfortable, as she's a pacifist by nature. After the quarry closed, she was sold into industrail service and modified before returning.

Krystal - An Arnov-built 0-4-2, Krystal is the leader of all the Arnov engines in the quarry. She's very no-nonsene and she sticks up for the people under her. She initially saw Marlow with some trepidation, but Kyd convinced her that he was alright. She ended up sticking with the quarry until its final days and the owner perserved her and Norham, and the two started the effort to regroup everyone together as a sign that there would be no more conflict based on builders.

Norham - This guy never got a drawing. Norham is the leader of the Andrew-Barclay locomotives, and also the living embodiment of the nerd emoji. Krystal hates him until the two of them are perseved together and they're forced to talk with one another.

Bea - An 0-4-0 of unknown origin, Bea is the main and also only shunter of Bourenbouth Port. He's also level-headed like Marlow, but he has an affection for the eccentric. The Port closes alongside the Quarry, and Bea is left in his shed for years until Marlow remembers that he's there, and Bea is rescued and brought to the NRM in York, where he ends up fitting in quite well. (you get the weathered version too.)

William - The main tugboat to interface with Bea and Marlow, William loves telling stories about the other boats in the area. (literally just "tugs refrences go here.") Aside from that, William is also fascinated with the Macabre, so some visiting engines find him best in small doses.

That's all of the important ones! Some others have drawings but aren't important, just background fillers for either side of the conflict. As a special thing, here is an old unfinished piece of Marlow & Kyd being pulled out of the river (featuring their old designs, and them being covered in rust and mud!) and the Out Of The River story in full! (It's not my best and if I ever rework it I think i'd just start from scratch anyways.)

I hope you enjoy these guys, they are my Heritage Blorbos™.

[intoanothermind]

The Glue - Part Five

T H E   G L U E

Word Count: 3.2k words

Synopsis: Glue or Variable? This is the big question about Frankie’s existence. Assigned to the same role as Newt in WCKD’s Lethal Experiments, Frankie suddenly realizes that she will become just a variable to activate brain reactions in her former Group A friends. Without memories and being the only girl among several boys, she has the feeling of already knowing some of them. The new question that matters to WCKD is: will Frankie play her role as a variable correctly?

- Newt x OC (Frankie)

Masterlist

<Part 4 | Part 6>

(Warnings: attempt of sexual abuse. DO NOT read it if it’s a major trigger for you. You can read the first part in italic, skip the first part after the “~*~” and read from the first line in the normal text.I will put it in bold so you can know where. After that there’s a lot of confusing and shocked feelings, so be warned as well. I’ll put a summary at the end of the chapter about what happend if you want to skip it altogether after the italics.)

—

P A R T   F I V E

The girl could do nothing but cry. Cry and mourn for the bad luck she has had since she was pulled out of her parents' arms more than a decade ago. She was a fifteen year old teenager and, as such, had her hormones, feelings and dreams like any other, it didn’t matter if she was part of WICKED or not. And they should understand. She loved Newt as she never thought she would ever love someone and now the Creators have only thought of separating them. That wasn’t fair!

“Frankie?” She heard a familiar voice seconds before bumping into someone and going straight to the floor.

The girl looked up, meeting the small eyes of her friend Minho, looking at her with concern.

“Frankie, what happened? Are you alright?” He asked, crouching beside her to help her up.

“Doesn't matter, where's Newt?” Asked the girl, a little hurried as he wiped a few tears.

Minho frowned, confused. “He's on his way, he was finishing some last minute challenges.”

“Thank you, Minho, see you later!” She said in a hurry, giving a kiss on the friend's cheek before running away in the direction where he came from.

After a few corridors turned, she finally saw the blonde she was looking for further ahead. She was in a hurry, so she didn't stop as she pulled Newt toward a side door. The space they entered was tiny, but the girl didn't care. She just hugged the boy's waist and allowed herself to shed a few more tears.

“Frankie? What is it?” Newt asked, concerned, as he hugged her with one arm and stretched the other to find the switch.

The girl closed her eyes tightly when the light was turned on and buried her face in Newt's chest. With some difficulty, he managed to push the girl away and watch her face, reddened by crying. She held it in her hands and the girl finally opened her eyes, finding the brownish orbs watching her closely.

“What happened, love?” He asked, stroking his cheek with his thumb.

“T-they ...” She started, but paused to take a deep breath and say something coherent. “The Creators changed my role in the Experiment.”

Newt frowned, confused. “What do you mean? Frankie, I don't understand.”

The girl took another deep breath, building up the courage to pass on the information she had heard Thomas exchange with the Chancellor.

“They found out about us dating, Newt.” She said, and Newt could see the desperation in her eyes. “They found out and instead of punishing us, they decided to change my role. Thomas had tried to negotiate with Chancellor Paige, but all he managed was for me to become a variable.” She continued, already feeling a new wave of crying wanting to explode through her chest. “I will not be more to ‘keep the girls together’ in Group B. I'll go to your Glade.”

Newt looked astonished. He looked around at the broom closet - strange and cliché in the girl's opinion - before turning to her with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Why would that be bad?” He asked, finally speaking.

“Because it is!” Exclaimed the girl, moving away from Newt and placing her hands on her head. “I will be a variable! I will be there just to induce brain reactions, I will be even more disposable than I already am!” She ended almost screaming.

“Hey Hey hey!” Murmured Newt, taking the girl's hands and pushing them away from her face. “We can try to see the bright side of it.” He waited until she looked him in the eye. “We were afraid when they split up to Phase 2 in the Desert. Now they won't.”

“B-but...” The girl tried to argue, seeking answers to her doubts and despairs.

“But nothing, Frankie.” Said Newt firmly, holding her face in his hands and making her look into his eyes. When she did, he opened the crooked smile that made her heart so fast. “You may not remember anything that happened to us so far, but at least we'll be together. And that is what matters.”

The girl smiled, delighted. “That's what matters.”

Newt's smile widened even more, and he leaned over to kiss her. The kiss that always made the girl forget that the reality she faced was not the best.

~ * ~

The first thing I felt when I woke up was despair taking over my body control. I couldn't breathe and my eyes were already blurred by tears that I didn't even notice were streaming. My sleeping bag was pulled out of me and I finally realized what was happening when a weight pinned me to the floor covered with dry leaves: Greg, the Builder who had been teasing me the day before, was onto me, immobilizing me and using one of the hands to explore my body.

I breathed heavily against the boy's warm skin, and tried at all costs to free myself from his grip. Greg murmured indecipherable words that I sometimes understood as “be quiet” or “shut up before they find out”. But I would never be quiet, at least not now and not at that moment. I struggled as hard as I could while I was trapped under his body, but nothing I did seemed to bring me freedom. The feeling of despair, failure and disgust was beginning to suffocate me more than ever. Greg slid his hand down the men's shirt I wore, leaving my breast exposed. My eyes widened automatically and my heart increased its pace almost sickly.

And in that instant, I wanted my heart to really stop.

When Greg left my breasts reddish, purple and sore, I no longer knew how to decide between uselessly screaming for help and whining about my bad luck. I was already about to hit my head hard on the floor in order not to witness what I knew would be the worst moment of my life as Greg lowered his hand towards my pants when his weight abruptly left me.

I opened my eyes, taking the opportunity to get away and crawled on my back until I felt my body hitting a tree. I lifted my torn shirt and hid my chest again. Not far from me, I saw Minho over Greg, beating him audibly and angrily.

“Go after Newt, now!” Minho shouted at me, before returning to his fight with Greg, who started to fight back.

I still remained paralysed for a few seconds, trying to absorb everything that had happened to me. When I finally seemed to recover at least enough to run, I did. I got up suddenly and didn't look at the boys fighting on the ground before running through the trees back to Homestead. And I kept crying. Holding the torn fabric of what is left of my shirt in front of my chest, I ran, stumbled, got up and continued running even barely seeing where I was going with the tears running down my cheeks. I got out of the Deadheads, under various confused and curious eyes, but I didn't care. Just one pair of eyes mattered, and as soon as I found them, I threw myself into Newt's arms without caring about anything else but the inexplicable security his embrace gave me.

“Frankie?” Newt asked, a little surprised and frightened, as he hugged me tightly in order to ward off sobs. “What happened?”

I pulled away from Newt a little, still holding the cloth loose in front of my chest, breathing deeply and heavily as I tried to regain my composure to say anything. But, before any words left my mouth, Newt had his reaction. He looked me up and down, making me ashamed and his eyes widened when he realized my miserable situation. In a quick movement, Newt tore the scabbard from his machete, throwing it anyway on the floor at his feet. I was confused, until he took off the long-sleeved blouse he wears on a daily basis, showing a brownish T-shirt and slightly hidden muscles.

In the next instant, I found myself raising my arms by force and Newt's shirt was running over my head. When she settled herself largely on my body, the smell of sweat, earth and cologne calmed my heart by the simple fact that it was Newt's scent.

“Frankie, tell me what happened!” Newt pleaded, holding my shoulders and shaking them slightly.

“G-Greg, he...” I tried to say, indicating the Deadheads behind me, before my voice disappeared.

But it hadn't been necessary. A howl came from the woods, and I knew it came from Greg. I was startled by the noise, pressing against Newt in an impulsive movement. I hugged him tightly, relaxing a little when he, although confused, hugged me back. A movement on the edge of Deadheads caught our attention and Newt hugged me tighter in a reflexive and protective act, while I cowered in his comfort.

Among the skeletal trees, Minho appeared with a fierce expression on his face and Greg in front of him, trying to free himself from the improvised handcuffs with ropes. While being dragged by Minho and Alby - who had come to find out what was going on and had finally helped - towards the Slammer, Greg looked in my direction despite his face swollen by the beating. A sadistic, impure look that gave me such a high level of disgust that I wanted to pluck my reddened skin from his stabbing touch. I avoided looking while he was arrested, so I buried my face in Newt's chest again.

“What happened, Minho?” I heard him ask, and I looked up to see Minho and Alby already beside us.

I wanted to open my mouth to thank him for saving me, but when nothing came out I realized I was still crying. Alby indicated that we followed him to the Homestead, so we didn’t attract more attention to me and for the first time, I agreed to something he said. We entered the Homestead, with Newt still holding me, and I realized that the council was there too. They settled on the floor in a half-moon shape and, although I thought they would do it upstairs, I realized that a Conclave would start.

“We gather here in a emergency to decide Greg's situation.” Began Alby. “Although I still don’t trust the newbie, she is now a Glader and, as the rules say, it is forbidden to hurt another Glader. Each of you will be entitled to your turn. We will respect all opinions and consider everything that each one says and we will reach a conclusion. Minho, tell us what you saw.”

Minho threw a sympathetic look at me quickly before beginning his narrative.

“Frankie had promised to say goodbye to me and Ben every time we went to the Maze, but I thought it was a little strange when I didn't see her on the edge of Deadheads. I went looking for her and when I found her near the cemetery, Greg was on top of her trying to...” He swallowed hard. “Abusing her...”

A sob was heard and I realized it was mine. My eyes hazed up and my fingers were shaking. Winston, Gally and most of the other Keepers looked at me with pity, which made me cringe more towards Newt.

“Newt, take her upstairs to calm down.” Said Alby, possibly in the best act of compassion for me.

I felt Newt nodding and then he lifted me up next to him. He guided me up the stairs to the top floor, looking like he already had a destination in mind. When he passed me through one of the doors where I thought he was his room, I finally got out of my trance state and had a concrete reaction that wasn't just crying. I took off the shirt Newt had put on me and, in a fit of pure fury, I started to scratch my skin. I felt hatred and disgust with myself. I hated feeling weak and Greg had made me feel worthless and helpless. I hated him for doing this to me and I hate myself for allowing it. I looked at my skin and purple hickeys on my breast and howled with pure hatred as I scratched myself, hoping to rip off the desecrated skin with my nails. My psychological state was already seriously compromised and I was afraid that the images I had seen would never release me from this trauma. I started to scratch my arms too, not caring that red lines started to appear and my nails were dyed. I cared even less if I stayed raw. Maybe it was even better than feeling invaded and violated.

I felt strong hands holding me, preventing me from continuing with my self-destruction. With adrenaline still pumping through my veins, I tried to break free from Newt, screaming for freedom. I struggled as much as I did with Greg. But, unlike him, Newt didn't move, just held me, his breath hitting the back of my neck and making me shiver.

“Let me go, please.” I asked, my voice hoarse from crying.

“I won't let you go, Frankie.” Said Newt, and his carefully calm voice had an almost instantaneous effect on me. “I will always want your good, I will not give up.”

Gradually, I managed to calm down and Newt guided me to the bed. He left me leaning against the headboard and went back to pick up the shirt on the floor. When he handed it to me, I dressed it without question, while he sat across from me. I pulled my legs up and hugged them, resting my chin on my knees. I closed my eyes, trying to block the images that came to my mind. I felt Newt's breath coming closer and for a moment mine became uneven until I felt his lips on my forehead. Newt moved away from me, and I opened my eyes, seeing him still close.

“I'll take care of you, Frankie, I promise.” he whispered, his brown eyes staring at me intently.

I smiled, unable to find my voice to thank him, and leaned over to hug him. Not that hug of despair that begged for comfort. It was a hug of thanks, and Newt didn’t hesitate to respond. He didn't move away from me and I didn't insist until we heard a knock on the door. Newt stepped away minimally, just enough to shout an “come in”. Minho came through the door, looking a little upset, but trying to disguise that fact.

“Have you finished the Conclave already?” Asked Newt, looking a little surprised. “I didn't even hear screams from those klunks!”

“Because they didn't.” Minho replied, sitting on the edge of the mattress. “I never thought anything like this would happen.”

“What? Minho, what happened?” I asked, sitting up straighter, looking forward to his reply.

“The decision was almost unanimous.” Minho finally said. “Greg will be banned at dusk.

~ * ~

The moment Alby untied the leash, I knew I couldn't stand watching it. But my feet were planted on the ground, and I couldn't get out of the crowd of boys watching Greg's banishment. The collar was tied around Greg's neck the moment he looked through the boys around me and looked at me with a look of pure insanity and desire. I didn't even know if I could cry anymore that day. No one said a word, and although I knew that Greg would be killed by the Griviers since no one had survived a night in the Maze, I was afraid I was still in danger.

Greg kept his gaze on me and Chuck, beside me, took my hand. Alby pulled on his collar to make sure he was well attached to the long pole in his hand. He ran his fingers along its length and when he reached its base, he waved back with his hands. The post seemed to be about six meters and the aluminum tip was curved in the middle, but only a little.

“Greg of the Builders.” Said Alby aloud, finally breaking the silence that had been installed by the tension of the situation. “You were sentenced to Banishment for attempting to rape Frankie the Newbie. The Keepers spoke, and their word does not change. Unanimous decision and you will never return. In charge, take your place on the Bane Pole.”

I shuddered when his words reached my ear, saying for the first time the clarity of what had happened to me as the worst experience I have ever had in my life, including the one before Box. One by one, boys came out of the crowd and among them I recognized Newt, Minho, Winston and Gally. As soon as the ten Keepers were evenly spaced on the post, all I wanted was for it to end at once. The tension in the air and the weight on my chest felt too much for me to take. The East Door began to close, with a loud noise and sparks coming out of the stone. The ground shook and I squeezed Chuck's hand tighter. The post was pushed by the Keepers and the crowd of boys looked surprised when Greg offered no resistance. Soon he was more than a meter out of the Glade. At the last second, the Keeper at the front loosened the wider bar, detaching it from the part attached to Greg and, pulling it back to the Glade, left it to the Banishment.

Before the Doors closed completely, Greg was able to say a single sentence while looking directly at me.

“I just regret not having finished.”

I was horrified even after the Doors closed completely between me and Greg. The crowd dispersed and all I could do was to stay there like a dead weight. I didn’t disagree with that point of view, but my muscles couldn’t move. When I found my will again, Newt was already in front of me, looking at me with concern. I looked at him, feeling my irregular breathing and a lonely tear running down my right cheek.

“Newt.” Alby approached after dispersing the crowd. “Your responsibility.” He said to Newt, looking just like wanting to reinforce something that had already been said.

Newt nodded and Alby waved at me before walking away.

“Come on, Frankie.” Called Newt, his voice sweet. “You sleep in my room from now on.”

(CHAPTER SUMMARY: Greg The Bilder tried to abuse Frankie while she slept in the Deadheads, but Minho came in time to save her. He told her to go look for Newt and she did. The was a Conclave to decide Greg destiny, but while Minho as telling the Keepers what happened, Frankie was still in shock and Newt took her to a room so she didn’t have to relive it. She freaked out in there and Newt told her he would take care of her. Minho came after them a while after, telling that the decision was unanimous and Greg would be banished. The final part was the banishment and Newt saying that Frankie would sleep in his room from now on instead of in the open.)

[my-random-ocs]

Rise Up Chapter 2: We Fight Demon Scorpions

Pairing: Stiles Stilinski x OC (eventually)

Warnings: Angst, weapons, betrayal

<<< Previous || Masterlist || Next >>>

The next morning, the buzz at breakfast faded into the background as I attempted to wake up. I never really managed to fall back asleep after my nightmare.

A nudge against my shoulder made me jump, and I turned to see Silena sending me a worried look. “You okay?” She asked.

I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. I zoned back into the breakfast announcements. Apparently at around three this morning, an Aethiopian drakon had been spotted at the borders at camp. I was so distracted by my nightmare and tossing and turning that I hadn’t even noticed. The magical boundaries kept the monster out, but it stalked along the border, looking for weak spots in our defenses. It didn’t go away until Lee Fletcher, the Apollo cabin’s head counselor, led his siblings in pursuit. After shooting a few dozen arrows into its armor, it finally got the message and left.

“It’s still out there,” Lee was warning us. “Twenty arrows in its hide, and we just made it mad. The thing was thirty feet long and bright green. Its eyes-” He cut himself off, shuddering.

“You did well Lee,” Chiron said, patting him on the shoulder. “Everyone stay alert, but stay calm. This has happened before.”

“Aye,” Quintus said from his seat at the head table. “And it will happen again. More and more frequently.”

Wow, how helpful.

The campers murmured amongst themselves.

Everyone knew that Luke was planning an invasion into camp. Most of us expected it to happen this summer, but no one knew how or when. Our attendance was down, and that definitely didn’t help. When I started about four years ago, there had been over one hundred. Now there were only a little over eighty. Some had died. Some had joined Luke. Some had straight up disappeared.

“This is a good reason for new war games,” Quintus said. I didn’t love the glint in his eyes. “We’ll see how you all do with that tonight.”

“Yes…” Chiron said. “Well, enough announcements. “Let us bless this meal and eat.” He raised his goblet. “To the gods!”

We all raised our glasses and repeated the blessing.

I grabbed my plate, stood, and led my siblings to the brazier. “Aphrodite,” I whispered, tossing a hash brown into the fire. Mitchell showed Lacy what to do as I prayed to my mother. “Help me with Luke, and Grover, and protecting Amara…”

There was so much to list that I could have gone on all morning, but I headed back to my seat.

After a few minutes, I noticed that Grover was eating with Percy. Suddenly, my fork was halfway to my mouth when I felt somebody lift me by my shirt and take me to the Poseidon table. She plopped me down next to Grover and I swallowed my breakfast while Annabeth slid into the bench next to Percy.

“I’ll tell you what it’s about,” Annabeth said. “The Labyrinth.”

“Oh, okay, so we’re talking about this now,” I realized.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Percy told Annabeth. Campers weren’t allowed to switch tables. I wasn’t sure what the punishment was for switching, because it’s never happened. If Mr. D had been here, Annabeth and I would have been in big trouble, but he wasn’t here. Chiron apparently had already left. Quintus was still sitting at the head table, but didn’t say anything.

“We need to talk,” Annabeth insisted.

“But the rules-”

“Look, Grover is in trouble,” Annabeth interrupted. “There’s only way we can figure to help him. It’s the Labyrinth. That’s what Clarisse, Zia, and I have been investigating.”

“The Labyrinth isn’t in Crete anymore,” I continued. “Like a lot of ancient Greece myth stuff, it’s moved to America. Or, in this case, under America.”

“So… is the Labyrinth part of the Underworld?” Percy asked.

I shook my head. “No.”

“Well, there may be passages from the Labyrinth down into the Underworld,” Annabeth corrected. “I’m not sure. But the Underworld is way, way down. The Labyrinth is right under the surface of the mortal world, kind of like a second skin. It’s been growing for thousands of years, lacing its way under Western cities, connecting everything together underground. You can get anywhere through the Labyrinth.”

“If you don’t get lost,” Grover grumbled helpfully. “And die a horrible death.”

“There has to be a way,” I told him. Again. We’ve had this conversation more than a few times over the past few months. “Clarisse made it out.”

“Barely!” He countered. “And the other guy-”

“He was driven insane,” Annabeth interrupted. “He didn’t die.”

“Oh, joy,” Grover said sarcastically. “That makes me feel much better.”

“Whoa,” Percy said. “Back up. What’s this about Clarisse and a crazy guy?”

I glanced over at the Ares table. Clarisse eyed us like she knew what we were talking about, but as soon as we made eye contact, she quickly focused on her plate.

I lowered my voice as I turned back to Percy. “Last winter,” I started, “Clarisse went on a mission for Chiron.”

“I remember,” he said. “It was secret.”

I nodded. “It was a secret because she found Chris Rodriguez.”

“The guy from the Hermes cabin?”

Chris was a son of Hermes who had come to camp before I had. He was about a year older than I was, and used to be friends with Nisha and I, until he left camp soon after Luke did. Last summer, Percy, Annabeth, Tyson, and I had found him on Luke’s war/cruise ship, the Princess Andromeda.

“Yeah,” Annabeth confirmed. “Last summer he just appeared in Phoenix, Arizona, near Clarisse’s mom’s house.”

“What do you mean he just appeared?” Percy asked.

“A few weeks after we got back from our quest,” I said, “Chris was found wandering around in the desert, in a hundred and twenty degrees, in full Greek armor, ranting about string.”

“String,” Percy said.

“He’d been driven completely insane,” Annabeth said. “Clarisse brought him back to her mom’s house so the mortals wouldn’t institutionalize him. She tried to nurse him back to health.”

“Chiron even came out and questioned him,” I added. “But it didn’t do much good. The only thing we were able to figure out is that Luke’s men have been exploring the Labyrinth.”

“Okay,” Percy said, trying to take all of this in. “Why were they exploring the Labyrinth?”

“We weren’t sure,” I said. “That’s why Clarisse went scouting. Chiron kept things quiet because he didn’t want to start a panic. The only reason he involved me was because… well, it’s Luke.”

“And he involved me because the Labyrinth has always been one of my favorite subjects,” Annabeth said. “The architecture involved…” Her expression turned a little dreamy. “The builder, Daedalus, was a genius. But the point is, the Labyrinth has entrances everywhere. If Luke could figure out how to navigate it, he could move his army around with incredible speed.”

“Except it’s a maze, right?” Percy asked.

“Full of horrible traps,” Grover added. “Dead ends. Illusions. Psychotic goat-killing monsters.”

“But not if you had Ariadne’s string,” Annabeth countered. “In the old days, Ariadne’s string guided Theseus out of the maze. It was a navigation instrument of some kind, invented by Daedalus. And Chris Rodriguez was mumbling about string.”

“So Luke is trying to find Ariadne’s string,” Percy said. “Why? What’s he planning?”

“I wish I knew,” I answered. “At first, we thought he wanted to use the maze to invade camp, but that wouldn’t make sense. The closest entrances Clarisse found were in Manhattan, so Luke wouldn’t be anywhere near our borders, let alone be able to get past them. Clarisse explored a little ways into the Labyrinth, but it was really dangerous. She had some close calls. Annabeth and I researched everything we could about Daedalus, but it didn’t help much. We can’t figure out what Luke is planning, but we know that the Labyrinth might be the solution to Grover’s problem.”

Percy blinked in confusion. “You think Pan is underground?”

“It would explain why he’s been impossible to find,” Annabeth said.

Grover shuddered. “Satyrs hate going underground. No searcher would ever try going in that place. No flowers. No sunshine. No coffee shops!”

“But,” Annabeth said, “the Labyrinth can lead you anywhere. It reads your thoughts. It was designed to fool you, to trick you and kill you-”

“- But if you can make the Labyrinth work for you-” I continued.

“It could lead you to the Wild god,” Percy finished.

“I can’t do it,” Grover insisted, clutching his stomach. “Just thinking about it makes me want to throw up my silverware.”

“Grover, it may be your last chance,” Annabeth said. “The council is serious. One week or you learn to tap dance!”

A throat clearing gained our attention, and my head swiveled to the head table, where Quintus was staring pointedly at us. I had a feeling he didn’t want to make a scene, but Annabeth and I were pushing it by staying at the Poseidon table for this long.

“We’ll talk later,” Annabeth said. She squeezed Percy’s arm. “Convince him, will you?”

Annabeth got up and went back to her table.

“It’s going to be okay, Grover,” I tried to reassure him. “We’ll figure it out.”

He just stared dejectedly at the table. I stood up and returned to my breakfast with Cabin Ten.

____________

That night after dinner, Quintus had us put on armor like we were going to play capture the flag, but the camp’s mood seemed more serious than that. At some point today, the crates from the arena had disappeared, and I had a bad feeling that whatever was in them was now running around in the woods.

Quintus stood up at the head table. “Right,” he said. “Gather ‘round.”

I found Ethan in the crowd and went to stand between him and Silena.

He was dressed in black leather and bronze. Mrs. O’Leary bounced around him happily, looking for food scraps to eat, then came right up to me.

I grinned, scratching behind her ears.

“You will be in teams of two,” Quintus announced. Immediately, everyone started moving around to get to their friends, he shouted, “Which have already been chosen.”

Everyone groaned.

“Your goal is simple,” Quintus continued. “Collect the gold laurels without dying. The wreath is wrapped in a silk package, tied to the back of one of the monsters. There are six monsters. Each has a silk package. Only one holds the laurels. You must find the wreath before the other teams. And, of course… you will have to slay the monster to get it, and stay alive.”

The crowd muttered excitedly.

“Lot more exciting than capture the flag,” Ethan grinned.

“Tell me about it,” I agreed. The goal seemed simple. Most of us had killed monsters before- that’s what we trained for.

“I will now announce your partners,” Quintus said. “There will be no trading. No switching. No complaining.”

“Arooof!” Mrs. O’Leary howled. She moved from my side to bury her face in a plate of leftover pizza.

Quintus took out a scroll and started reading off names.

Silena was paired up with Beckendorf, and she couldn’t hide her smile. I nudged her shoulder with mine, smirking. She shoved me playfully, both of us grinning. See, Silena had a crush on Beckendorf that neither of them would do anything about, and hoped they would soon, because it was super annoying how they wouldn’t tell each other how they felt.

Travis and Connor Stoll were paired up, which wasn’t a surprise. They did everything together. Clarisse was with Lee Fletcher. Percy and Annabeth were together. Grover and Tyson were paired together, which neither looked very happy about.

Then my name was called. “Ghaziyah Banerjee and Ethan Nakamura!” Ethan and I grinned at each other, and high fived.

“They don’t want to give anyone a fighting chance?” Ethan joked. Both of us were great sword fighters, and always rocked capture the flag when Aphrodite and Hermes were allied. I couldn’t wait to see how this would turn out.

____________

The actual game itself wasn’t important. Ethan and I almost beat Clarisse and Travis, but Grover and Tyson had a little issue. In order to make sure they didn’t accidentally kill each other, we missed the box with the laurel that would have made us win.

Luckily, Ethan wasn’t mad.

As I started taking off my armor, Ethan shuffled around nervously. “You okay?” I asked, undoing the straps of my breastplate.

“Yeah, I just-” He stopped. “I need to talk to you.”

I furrowed my brows. “About what?”

Ethan took a deep breath, then said all at once, “I wanted to leave camp.”

My eyes widened in surprise. “You-”

“I wanted to leave,” Ethan continued, “and join Luke’s army. But I don’t anymore.”

My mind was reeling. “You wanted to leave?” I asked, unable to keep the hurt and confusion out of my voice.

Ethan nodded, looking ashamed. “I did. I have a lot of anger toward the gods- you know that. And when I met Luke, so did he. The gods don’t pay enough attention to their kids, and he was really the only one doing something about it. But I realize… that he isn’t going about it the right way. I’ve decided to stay.”

“You have?” I asked, my hopes raising slightly.

“Yeah. I just- you’re my best friend in the world,” he said. “You’re the only one who actually accepts that my mother is Nemesis. You’re basically my little sister. The last thing I want is to mess that up.”

I processed everything Ethan just said, finally whispering, “So… you’re staying?”

Ethan nodded, beginning to smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m staying.”

I grinned, squealing happily, and gave my best friend a bear hug, causing him to laugh.

“Hate to break up the fun,” a voice called, causing me to pull back. I turned to see Clarisse. “But we have a problem.”

I tensed, placing my hand on my sword. “What’s wrong?”

“Percy and Annabeth are missing.”

I would love to say I didn’t freak out.

Truthfully, I just about had a heart attack.

The whole camp, including Chiron, searched the entire woods.

After about an hour, I was on the verge of a panic attack when we heard shouts that they had been found.

Ethan and I followed the voices to Zeus’ Fist.

“Thank the gods!” I exclaimed, launching myself into Annabeth’s arms, causing her to stumble back from the force. Before she could react, I pulled away and hugged Percy tight. “Where were you two?”

“We’ve been looking forever,” Clarisse added as I pulled away, examining my friends for injuries.

“But we were only gone a few minutes,” Percy protested, confused at my outburst.

“Only a few minutes?” I repeated. “What, did you time travel?”

Chiron trotted up, followed by Grover and Tyson.

“Percy!” Tyson cried. “You are okay?”

“We’re fine,” Percy said. “We fell in a hole.”

We stared at him, confused, then looked at Annabeth.

“Honest!” Percy insisted. “There were three scorpions after us, so we ran and hid in the rocks. But we were only gone a minute.”

“You’ve been missing for almost an hour,” Chiron said. “The game is over.”

“Yeah,” Grover mumbled. “We would’ve won, but a Cyclops sat on me.”

“Was an accident!” Tyson protested, then sneezed.

I would have laughed if I wasn’t so confused.

“A hole?” Clarisse asked suspiciously.

Annabeth turned to our mentor. “Chiron, maybe we should talk about this at the Big House.”

Suddenly, it clicked, and I looked at Clarisse, who seemed to have come to the same conclusion. “Oh, my gods,” I said in amazement, my eyes widening. “You found it, didn’t you?”

Annabeth bit her lip. “I- Yeah. Yeah, we did.”

About fifty campers started asking questions at once, but Chiron raised his hand, quieting everyone. “Tonight is not the right time, and this is not the right place.” He eyes the boulders like he just noticed something wrong with them. “All of you, back to your cabins. Get some sleep. A game well played, but curfew is past!”

There was a lot of complaining, but the campers made their way back to the cabins.

“This explains a lot,” Clarisse said. “It explains what Luke is after.”

“Wait a second,” Percy said. “What do you mean? What did we find?”

Annabeth turned to Percy, worry clear on her face. “An entrance to the Labyrinth. An invasion route straight into the heart of camp.”

After that, Clarisse, Percy, and Clarisse headed back to their cabins, and I followed. It was difficult wrangling a bunch of eleven- to sixteen-year-olds together for bedtime. And I thought living with a one-year-old was difficult.

I turned toward the cabins, and I noticed Ethan was still there, a little ways away. He looked like he heard everything, but I wasn’t too worried. I smiled, pretending nothing was wrong.

“Come on, let’s head back,” I said happily.

He nodded, but didn’t say anything.

I couldn’t read his expression, and it made me nervous.

We stopped as we reached our cabins. “Good night, Ethan,” I said quietly.

“‘Night, Zia,” he responded, and we went our separate ways.

[rightnowyoucanttell]

𝘼𝙡𝙤𝙣𝙚 𝘼𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙉𝙖𝙩𝙪𝙧𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙮 || .G.D.

(This songs an oldie, but It popped up on my random artist playlist, and I was inspired. Haha, enjoy ig..)

Title: Alone Again, Naturally 

Summary: Veronica Chandler seems to be only destined for heartbreak. After a failed attempt to rebound on her toxic ex, she makes a routine trip to her local 24 hour Starbucks, in which she meets a handsome stranger.. and oh,  who happens to be the spitting image to the photo of the tinder date who stood her up....

Relationship: Grayson Dolan and Veronica Chandler

Word Count: 2,034

Tags (*updated*) : @dzoint ​ @graysavant @blindedbythelightt ​ @tadadolan @heartofalionxo  @beatement-l   @grayswhore @tattoogray ​@saggitariusagirl

Author’s note: First, this is total shit, i’m sorry. Second, I  did the stupidest thing of all time. I gave my OC the same name as the main character in the novel i’m writing on wattpad (to self plug, or not to self plug that is the question; i’ll take self plug for 100, Alex) why am i so stupid? Well, i'm too lazy to change it so. 

Third, i was inspired when the twins talked about dating apps and just like idk where this came from, must be out of my ass because it’s shit. 

I actually laughed at that...

Fourth, feedback is like the most important thing to me, like ever? So, feel free to lmk what y’all think, if this becomes a series I will be taking concepts. 

Veronica Chandler is destined for great things. Planning her future, modeling and working as a struggling actress, she could go off and marry some lawyer. But, the only thing she did seem destined for was heartbreak.

Ronnie knew it had been too soon. Not even a month ago she had broken up with her ex, Jonathan. She also knew this, when she was attracted to a man on tinder with the same name, mostly because of the name. She wasn’t over the man who man who ruined her life to all hell. But, the comfort of a relationship was all she needed and desperately strived for.

Jonathan, was an artist, mad at the world needing to find himself. So, each night he did just so. Jonathan would go out to ‘find himself’ and along the way he found, Roxanne, Malibu, Dianne and Eileen. Jonathan drank, and he would physically and mentally abuse a good strong woman, who for the longest time couldn’t bring herself to walk out of his life.

Each time, from the first to the third she was too lonely, desperate and down on herself to let him loose. But, after he cheated on her with a married forty-year-old woman with four children, that was when Mama Chandler intervened and scared him half to fucking hell. That woman raised no fool, and if she did it was Veronica’s older brother, Noah.  Veronica was just a sad young woman who couldn’t keep a man because they used her.

This night in particular was her rebound date at a local vegan restaurant. A fancy one. With velvet rugs, chandeliers, expensive wines, however with decently sized portions. Veronica stood outside waiting for Jonathan. Who was described in his photo as muscular, a builder with brown hair and eyes and often in there messages boasted about such muscularity.

It was dark. He planned to meet her at 5:30. It was 7:30. Groups passed her. Parties on the street began talking, while the mannequins in store fronts slept under the lights. But, Ronnie was sure, this guy was genuine, and would be the best rebound. 

But, her plans and dreams were foiled when 8:30 hit, she decided to leave embarrassed and ashamed she thought it would turn out differently, she should have known. Her mosquito allergy becoming aggravated just as much as her. She sulked. She never really dressed to impress others, she wore heels, a leather jacket paired with a silk revealing top and boot cuts black jeans. That’s when the heaven on earth shone down upon her, a burning bush of sorts.

           A 24 hour starbucks.

As she walked down the sidewalk slowly, she was tired of being let down; tired of catering to the whims of others, ready to return home and make a stray of financially irresponsible choices online, she entered through the glass doors and into the small shop in Hollywood. The cool yet humid summer air from outside was left behind in the warmth of the shop, that’s when she saw him.

A tall handsome stranger, brown hair and eyes, with muscular arms. She fell for him immediately, he was gorgeous. But, then. Veronica realized something, the same man, the handsome stranger, was either the same person or a bicep by bicep replica of the man she was supposed to meet tonight, at that Vegan restaurant.

The fire fueled deep down, but she ignored it when she got in line to the left of him ready for her Pink Drink and croissant so she could run to the nearest Ralph’s and purchase two tubs of strawberry ice cream, she’d be needing it. The line shifted. She shifted on her feet, he did the same.

Veronica tapped her foot. That’s when the stranger started talking,”Whoah. Slow down there ‘Miss i’m on a mission’.”

His voice was deep and hoarse, he sounded like he had been having a night himself. Veronica ignored the voice that in some ways drew her closer.

“I’m Grayson, By the way..” the named stranger drifted. That’s when Veronica snapped. The man was Jonathan or she thought, and he was ignorant enough to poach the woman he stood up, again, she thought.

“How can you be so arrogant and glib, after everything you’ve done?” Veronica whipped her head to the right of him snapping out of anger and then with no response

“Ah, she’s brave. Calling me arrogant and glib, without even knowing me, cool.” Grayson scoffed and nodded, shrugging it off, and moving forward in the line before stopping yet again.

Ronnie tapped her foot miserable an angry…”Without knowing you? I know you. Your the kind of guy who’s shows up a girl, and breaks the rules because you think it’s cute.”

“Do You think it’s cute?” He lanced over to her smirking a devilish smirk. She scoffed and crossed her arms with her jacket draped over one of them, shaking her head as the crazily long late night line, shifted forward. ‘Grayson’ may have won the battle by showing her up, but his blatant lies would lose the war to Veronica.

“Spare me your routine, i assume that’s what this” she gestured to Grayson,”-cut it out okay? Or, i’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Sorry, not into a relationship at the moment,” he joked before turning back to face the options board, even though his order was almost always the same. Ronnie rolled her eyes. Ronnie's eyes were tired. She felt physically ready whoop this man;s ass, but mentally and emotionally drained.

“And, by the way. No. I do not think it’s fucking cute..” Veronica replied after a few moments of silence. Veronica mumbled cruising, barely audible to Grayson. Veronica was so confused, and so irritated, she didn’t no what to believe. She sighed and went for her phone fumbling for her back pocket, and opening the tinder profile of ‘Jonathan’, “Explain this.”

The screen illuminated a photo of Grayson with the name Jonathan below it. He had still had long hair at this point, right before it’s annoyance shaggy length.Grayson was shirtless in the photo with a chain necklace around his neck. Grayson squinted to examine the photo on the app and chuckled as he passed it back to Veronica.

“You, my dear, got catfished. By someone posing to be, yours truly. I’ve never had tinder and haven’t used a dating app since I was like, fourteen..” Veronica rolled her eyes at his comment before scrunching her brows in confusion but not enough to continue to pry,”..don’t believe me? Search ‘Grayson Dolan’ on instagram or twitter, you’ll owe me an apology.” Grayson snapped as hurt in reply and turned away from the fabric keeping a distance between the two. 

  Grayson felt for Veronica, he could hear the pain in her silence, the sadness in her eyes, the facade of a mask she put on,  even if he didn’t know her name, like her he had been pining for love. The same night he had been dumped via text by his ex girlfriend, also his ghost of days of business past, ex- assistant, before Sterling. He should have known it was a mistake, and Ethan warned him several times, but  much like Veronica with OG Jonathan, he blamed love for his feelings. 

Grayson was tired, wanting to head home with a cup of joe, but this unidentified juliet, across from him caught his eye, and there was no turning back. 

The line shifted. Hesitantly she opened instagram and search the name and she stopped, in her tracks. She owed this man apology, Grayson Dolan, he was a real guy, with a huge following however she never heard of him. She followed him, sighed and put her phone back into her pocket.And yes, he was good looking, she fell for the looks a little more than the name.

“..i--i’m sorry. Guess you were right, I was wrong..” Veronica managed to croak out. Grayson’s phone notified him from his pocket, he checked it smirked, followed her back and placed it back into his pocket.

Grayson looked over to the brunette Brazilian to the right of him. She tapped her foot nervously, as she picked her brain for a better apology. She felt herself loosen, knowing he was just trying to help, and didn’t stood up. Her demeanor changes, this man was a kind stranger who just happened to be the man in the photos she was catfished with, the real Grayson did nothing wrong.

“-., so this Jonathan, what happened?” He asked looking into her dark brown eyes, meaning it. Wanting to know everything about the stranger that made him want to know here. She laughed flashing a smile all the while. Her laugh, Grayson thought. The way she talked and laughed, when she was enjoying herself, it was all so lyrical, it made him want to laugh.

He looked at Veronica, like, really looked at her. The way the lighting reflected on her sparkly eyeshadow. Her dark green eyes, her long luscious and free riding dark brown hair, that had been straightened from its naturally curly form.

“..Well, I uh, met him on Tinder and he stood me up. I just got out of a nast relationship and he was my rebound, but he’s probably some weird guy living in his mother's basement-” she sighed opening up to him. She smiled at her own comedic relief comment. Hiding behind humour was something she did.

Grayson laughed, becoming serious,”I’m sorry, that sucks. What about your ex?”he pried further, there were only three people in front of them, all by themselves, swarmed by the world living in their phones.

“He was a cheater, a drinker and beater, who just so also happened to be named Jonathan..” the negative memories stirred up again in front of her. The pain on her shoulder came back, so did the reminiscence, drawing and pulling her into a melancholy flashback. 

                                                    ~~~

"Where would you like me to go, hmm? Ronnie!" he shoved her to the ground and she fell backwards dislocating her shoulder. She winced in pain, it had pulsated throughout her body. She knew she had to do this, for herself, the well being of herself for once. Did she want to? No. It scared her. He scared her.

Once he got the clout he wanted he changed, he was living off of her earnings, living in her apartment at the time, using her car, and she was forced to nod and smile along with it like some big ugly joke of a play. 

"How about for starters-" she managed between heavy sobs of pain and trying to prop herself against the reclining part of the sofa she was thrown in front of,"..hell? Take your toothbrush and your shave kit, and try some bleach in your cereal, i'm done. Okay? Go away, J!"

                                                            ~~~

Ronnie was back to reality when she heard Gray's voice,"..Safe to assume you have a type, then?"he asked really looking at the beautiful woman in front of his eyes.

 “Yeah. I try so hard but,”Veronica felt sad,” but, i’m never the one.” she felt even sadder memories of her ex flashing before her, she shrugged it off and continued,”…alone again, naturally, I guess.”

Grayson and Veronica were now the first in line,”Hey, let me buy your drink. Maybe we could be alone again, together…” Veronica smiled, and nodded.

“I’d like that..”

                       ~~~   

Later that night the two walked into the humid, yet comfortingly cool, heat together side by side after a two-hour conversation just on life.

“I, uh, better walk to my car.” Veronica said in front of Grayson’s porsche. Her jacket was around her shoulders and covered her arms,”I had fun, tonight” she held out a starbucks napkin she secretly wrote her number on, the wind tossed it gently back and forward. He smiled and breathed out a friendly, good night. He hated to see her go so soon, but would love to watch her leave.

“Wait, I never got your name-”he hollered down into the cold night on the streets of Los Angeles. Veronica turned around and continued walking backwards, her hair following and tracing her every move.

“It’s Veronica.” she breathed before giving him one last look with her deep green eyes and turning back down the sidewalk, heading to her car and driving into the night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Should I make this a series? If so, what to name it, i’m thinking lyrical and each chapter is a song name? lmk. 

AHH i'm nervous to post this, but fuck it, right? No day but today. 

i’ll stop. 

[arzuera]

How about like a sweet little Malroth scenario where the builder ends up building something for him for his return? It might have some sad vibes but I need it. I just finished moonbrooke in my game and I'm honestly devastated

ME TOO! MY HEART IS IN PIECES. I would not have stood idly by so I’m going to indulge myself a little in the second part of this answer. Also, I’m still taking requests~

WARNING SPOILERS FOR MOONBROOKE.

Watching Malroth walk away when they arrived home after everything that had happened in MoonBrooke was one of the hardest things that she had gone through. So many horrible things had happened and a lot of it shouldn’t have happened from the very beginning. If she didn’t need the added strength of the soldiers so badly, the Builder would have been fine with leaving Anessa, Zara, and the other new recruits to the newly peaceful island. The Ex-captain of the guard had said she was regretful about what had happened but the Builder was still hurt from it all.

The fact that Malroth wouldn’t allow her to explain herself definitely didn’t help.

The Builder sat on the ridge of a cliff watching the MoonBrooke people work on their ‘castle’ full of nothing but sorrow and bittersweet emotions at the current loss of her friend. Lulu was looking for the destructive man but she doubted that if the spoiled girl found him that it would end well. War had changed them both and the Builder didn’t know how to fix it. With the others it was easy. They told her what they wanted and how they wanted it. They were easy to please. Malroth, on the other hand, had only asked one thing of her and that had been when they first met. A heavy oak club is what she had made.

It was so simple. One of the most basic things she had ever made because she had so little resources at the time. Yet, Malroth had fallen in love with the simple weapon. So much so that when she made him something better that he refused to part with it. He would use the new weapon but the club was always on his person.

Even Lulu wouldn’t have anything to do with the starting stuff the Builder had made for her. Always demanding the best of the best.

Tears started to prick in her eyes and she furiously wiped them away. This was her fault. There had to be something more that she could have done when Malrothhad been imprisoned. More tears threatened to fall and the Builder quickly stood up before she could descend into a crying fit. She had to do something. She had to distract herself from the guilt twisting her insides like an emotional vice.

Malroth would come back. He just had too. If not to allow her to make amends, then to yell at her at least. When he did, she would have something to show him. Something just for him. Just like the oak club. Though it wouldn’t be a weapon. She had made plenty of those lately and she really didn’t want to make another one for a little while. No. It would be a place that he could use the club that he cherished so much.

inspired, the Builder used her map to warp over to the Scarlet Sands and she began mapping out the area that she would need. An arena. A fighting arena just for Malroth to use those destructive tendencies of his to face off against strong monsters or fun fights with the locals. Almost everyone liked a sparring match and they also loved to witness his raw strength. It would be a win-win for everyone. Hell, she would be his first opponent.

Heavens, she deserved some sort of ass-kicking for everything that happened.

With the idea in mind and the area picked out, the Builder set to work. A small bud of hope forming in her heart. If Lulu wasn’t successful then she would be. She had too.

She didn’t want to lose him forever.

Okay, this second part is from my own personal feelings on what happened in Moonbrooke and as such, I named the builder, Oribel, who is my OC.

WHAT SHOULD HAVE HAPPENED

“Good job on the cell! Perfect timing as well because its tenant had already been decided.” Warwick exclaimed in delight before adopting a slightly more subdued look on his face.

Oribel blinked in surprise. That sure was fast. She knew that the people of MoonBrooke had been suspecting a spy for a while but to already have someone in mind without telling her? What was going on? Unfortunately, her questions were answered when she was called back down by Warwick later that day only to find that Malroth had been the one imprisoned.

The blue-haired man clapped. “Now that the traitor has been locked up, we are finally safe.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Oribel glared at Warwick who looked slightly apologetic about locking up her best friend.

“The king ordered Malroth to be imprisoned. Even though it pains me to do it, I can’t ignore a direct order from my liege.”

“Why would you build a cell to put me in Oribel? I thought you trusted me!” The imprisoned man called out with hurt and thinly veiled anger.

Oribel growled. “Shut up! I didn’t know this was going to be for you.” She turned to Warwick who held the cell door key. “Let him out right now.”

“I can’t do that. I can’t defy a royal command.” Warwick reiterated as the King, Anessa, and Zara made their way down to the newly made cell.

“Excellent work, Builder. It is wonderful that you built a place to house our enemies. Now that everyone should feel safe, we can continue on to the next part of this war.” The King said and the anger Oribel had was making her want to punch the bearded man in the face.

“My friend is in there! I demand he be freed!”

“Sorry, my dear, but I must listen to the counsel that my guards have told me Malroth must remain imprisoned until his name is cleared.” the King replied before clearing his throat. “Now onto beating Atlas and ending this war. We should make a cannon that is powered by two towers from the people of MoonBrooke. If we had this weapon we could win this easily! Would you please make us a blueprint, Oribel?”

“Yeaaaahh.... how about no.”

Everyone looked at the builder with shocked expressions. “No? You are the most experienced builder here. We need you to make the blueprint!” Anessa said astonished.

Oribel quirked her eyebrow at the people of MoonBrooke. “Are you going to let Malroth out?”

“No. He is possibly the traitor and he sets everyone on edge.” Warwick replied. Astonishment in his voice as well.

“Then you all are shit out of luck then,” Oribel stated matter-of-factly as she pulled her hammer out and began charging it up while aiming at the cell and a slightly impressed Malroth.

Warwick ran in front of the cell to block her path. “What do you think you are doing? We can’t let the possible spy out. There is a time and place for these things.”

“I order you to stop this childish display, Oribel, and to design us those blueprints.” the King demanded with an air of authority that had Oribel’s anger going up the wall.

“Are you going to let him out?”

“No.”

“Take that royal order and shove it up your ass then,” Oribel said with venom in her voice. “we came here looking for help on our island. Malroth and I have done nothing but help you since we arrived. Sure he didn’t have a reflection in the Ra mirror but the actual traitors turned into monsters. If you are looking for a spy, you should be looking a little closer to home.”

“B-but Oribel! We need those blueprints. We can’t make them ourselves. Atlas will kill us all after completely demolishing the castle!” Zara cut in with her voice a desperate plea.

“Are you going to let Malroth out?” Oribel asked for a final time.

“No. We can’t.” Warwick replied.

“Then perish.” Oribel raised her hammer high and the blue-haired soldier dived out of the way as she brought it down in a powerful blow that shattered the cell bars into pieces. All that was left was a gaping hole and a surprised Malroth. She whirled around on the MoonBrookians and pointed her hammer at them threateningly. “I had one thing that I asked to help you out and you all refused to do it. When you find the real spy, come talk to me. Until then, have fun with your little war.”

Oribel stormed out of the basement with Malroth in tow and she built a tower on the mountain behind the castle by the docks. They can’t force her to help them when they unjustly imprisoned her friend. Malroth had her back and Oribel had his. It was as simple as that.

[greennightspider]

Secrets IV: A Crack in the Door

(gif by@honestsycrets, original post here)

Summary: Hvitserk is usually the quiet, mischievous brother. No one really knows what he does, or where he is half of the time, he’s usually an enigma. So what if the reason why….was not an it, but a who?

Author’s Note: This chapter is still prior to present day, also this is a time where Aslaug is still Queen of Kattegat and Lagertha is perfectly happy in Hedeby.

Previous Chapters: Secrets, Secrets II, Secrets III,  Secrets V, Secrets VI

Taglist: @laketaj24 @cbouvier23 @grungyblonde @badwolf-in-the-impala @tephi101 @readsalot73​ @therealcalicali​ @tomarisela​

Hvitserk x Rumena (OC)

“So how did you know my language?”

Hvitserk and Rumena were cuddled under the furs, letting the morning sun wake them as they let the morning pass them by.

“Different men want different things. Some like silence, some like it loud, and some like talking.” Yawned and snuggled more into the crook of Hvitserk’s arm. While she had been there for almost two weeks the cold was hard to get used to, and she was grateful that Hvitserk was as warm as a fire. “We had to learn different languages for different customers. We were not fluent, but we knew phrases that mattered.”

Hvitserk raised his eyebrow. “Show me?”

Mena returned the sly grin and so straddled her lover’s hips , Hvitserk instinctualy placing his hands on her thick thighs. She then began to slowly grind on his hardening morning wood, letting the furs fall so her upper body and chest were on show.. “Oh yes. Yes, yes!” She moaned.

Hvitserk’s mouth instantly became dry as he gulped.

"Oh please master, fill me with your thick cock!” Mena gasped with closed eyes as she drew her pussy back and forth over Hvitserk’s clothed dick. “It’s so hard, oh I love the way you fill me with your seed, you make me feel so good-”

“Okay thats it.”

Mena giggled as Hvitserk swiftly threw Mena onto her back beside her, littering her with kisses as he freed his dick from his trousers. Hvitserk watched as she bit her lip in pleasure while he sunk into her, loving the way her nails grew tighter in his skin with every inch.

“One more time, from the top.”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ivar peered at Hvitserk from across the hall as he twirled his cup of ale. While Ivar was a fighter, he was also a thinker. And one thing he could not stand is a problem that he couldn’t figure out.

“Have you all noticed something strange about our brother Hvitserk?”

Sigurd rolled his eyes, while Ubbe looked up from where he sat sharpening his arrows, while Bjorn looked at him curiously with a spoonful of porridge. “No. Why do you ask, brother Ivar?”

Ubbe chuckled but Ivar remained unfazed. “Ever since we came back from the raid he either wants nothing to do with us, or he leaves for a journey and comes back like he has just been mooned by Freya.”

“Ivar has a point.” Sigurd huffed.

Ivar extended his hand towards Sigurd. “Thank you!”

“Well something must be wrong of you two are agreeing with each other,” Ubbe pointed his arrow towards his two younger siblings.

“Whatever it is, Hvitserk will let us know if its anything serious.” Bjorn said through his mouthful. 

“I mean we all have our secrets,”Bjorn’s eyes flicked to his youngest brother. “Right Ivar?”

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hvitserk, there is something I want to talk to you about.”

A hidden figure silently watched through the cracks as Hvitserk stopped lacing his boots and stared up at Mena’s conflicted face, knowing she would only call him by his name when it was serious. “What is it about?”

She nervously sat next to him on the bed, her eyes studying the floor. “I want to go to Kattegat.”

Hvitserk instantly shot up. “No.”

“But Viseka-”

“Its too dangerous.”

“But I am better now!” She protested, standing up to bring her hands to his chest. “And even though I am very happy with you here, I would like to meet people, to see your world.” Mena smiled half-heartedly. “I do not want to feel like a caged bird.”

Hvitserk slumped at her words. “I know. Its just... I cannot speak for all of Kattegat in what they would think of you.” 

“I do not care what they think.”

Hvitserk sighed cupped her face lovingly. “And you are so beautiful. Surely one of my other, stronger, sturdier brothers would try to woo you-”

“But I am yours Viseka, and yours alone.” She rose up on her tiptoes to kiss his nose. “I like this nose.” She kissed both his ears, making him chuckle. “I like these ears.” Then Mena almost knelt down to her knees. “And I like this di-”

“Okay okay! I get it!” Hvitserk laughed. And unbeknownst to them the figure watched from outside as Hvitserk grabbed Mena in a bear hug.

“Come with me then. There are some people I would want you to meet.”

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Hvitserk!” 

Helga exclaimed cheerfully as she embraced the young prince fondly, squeezing his shoulders. “You’ve grown so much it is good to see you!”

“Helga, I have brought someone with me for you to meet.” Hvitserk stepped aside and let Helga see Rumena, who smiled shyly with her hands behind her back. “Hello.”

Helga’s mouth was slightly agape as she took in the girl before her. “This is Rumena.” Hvitserk gestured for her to come forward. “She is my friend. I found her on the raids.”

Nose to nose Mena was nervous that Helga’s shock would turn into fear, anger, or even hate. but Helga simply came forward and gently felt her hair in her hands. Rumena let her pat her head and caress her face. “So strange to us... and so beautiful.” 

Mena let out a relieved chuckle. “Thank you.”

“Come, both of you,” Helga said not letting go of Mena’s hand. “You can come and meet my husband. Floki!” She called out.

Floki all of a sudden jumped from his place in the trees right in front of Mena, making her scream and fall backwards. She tried to catch her breath as she stared at the gangly man in front of her, who copied her head movements as she turned it this way and that. 

Hvitserk rushed to help Mena on her feet. “Floki, this is-”

“Oh I know who it is.” The boat builder smiled devilishly. “Do you think no one saw you two as you cuddled at night on the boat?”

Floki chuckled as the two youngsters looked both shocked and embarrassed. “Come come come come.” 

As Mena walked with Helga into their home Floki came up to Hvitserk, who was looking relieved. “I am glad you approve Floki.”

“If Helga approves then so do I.” Floki chuckles. “You know what they say,” he looked up and down at Hvitserk with a puppy dog face. “When a woman doesn’t lack, no axe in your back.”

[zumaya-onepieceoc]

Zumaya’s BIO part 1

Gender: Female Age: 33 years old Height: 1,98 cm

Birthplace: She was born in Ishamuru island in the Ishamaru tribe. (Place created by myself, the data about the place will be revealed later in the info).

Family: Milos Sanlés is the father and Jenna Iriya the mother. Zumaya has eight siblings: Caín is the firstborn and so oldest with 37 years like his twin Casimiro, Zumaya (my muse) is the third child. Kenzo is 30 years old and then the fourth one, the next is Icaro who is 28 years old, then there it comes the triplets with 23 years old: Leyre (child number six), Desire (child number seven), Kisaru (the child number eight). And last Nazario with 19 years (the ninth).             Husband: Faye le Tristan (Oc from @proxis-shattered-expectations

childrens: Simbad, Leonel and (from @proxis-shattered-expectations

Laugh: Nyihihih or Chihihi or nrinrinri

Job: Basically, she is a veterinarian that works in the sea. In her village she was an animal healer thanks to that she mixes her knowledge as a traditional healer with a more modern kind of veterinary approach outside her island. Because of her beliefs she also considers that part of her job is to put a stop to the illegal animal trade and illegal fur trappers of all the seas.

Hobbies: She loves to read and learn different and traditional dances of all around the world. She thinks of exploring more as a pastime than a necessity.

Personality: Zumaya is usually a person who gets carried away by her instincts and first impressions. She is very extroverted with those with whom she feels comfortable. In addition to be very determined once the decision has been made, following it to the end at all costs. She is very curious and that shows in her love for books and her interest in knowing other cultures. She has no ambition for money and believes strongly in helping others out of pure solidarity. She is also a person who likes to have fun and within those diversions she does not say no to a little of inoffensive flirting.

Although it seems that she forgives very easily, she does not really forget, and she spends a lot of time thinking about the matter. Because of that she can become resentful, although that ultimately makes her feel worse. She can also be quite stubborn, she doesn’t like to be contradicted when she thinks she is right, but she is capable of accepting defeat if given sufficient arguments, although she will not be happy with the result. She cares a lot about the opinion of others so she sometimes feels very insecure when acting according to her customs or giving her opinion due to the “what they will say?”.

She is a tolerant and sociable person with the towns she visits. She always shows herself well mannered with different cultures and interested in knowing them and learning from them. However, getting to know the people on the ships and the pirates makes her nervous, which translates into a serious and withdrawn attitude, so she may seem unfriendly at first. Although this usually changes after the initial encounter.

She loses patience with extreme ease if they interrupt or disturb her while she works, depending on the circumstances and the person’s attitude she will be more or less hostile, but in any case her uncomfort will be noticeable at first glance.

With her enemies and those who trade illegal animals and skins, she is extremely cruel and vindictive, bringing out the worst in herself. There is no mercy in her words or actions. Because of this, some people who know her think that she gives more value to animal life than to human life.

Allies: Crew “Ishakurk” (Belonging to his brother Casimiro) Her Ship: The ark of the one-eyed dog.// Old allies: Leti’s Fangs  Bounty:  203.005.000 B

Past: Zumaya was born on the island of Ishamaru that is in North Blue, being the island populated by the inhabitants of the tribe “ Ishamuru ”. A tribe of pacific character but that understands the necessity to be prepared before possible eventualities, whose culture it’s based on their interactions with the fauna and flora that surrounds them (if you want later I can write a post about the culture of this tribe).

Since she was a little kid Zumaya felt a great admiration for her mother’s job (village healer of both people and local fauna and flora), she liked to see how her mother worked, especially with animals. This was what impelled her to follow that path in life, learning from her mother the trade. On the other hand, her father taught her and told her about the outside world and what he had learned from his birthplace and on his travels before ending up stranded on that island, where he met his wife and where he decided to stay. The words of her father awakened on her the desire to learn much more about what was beyond the horizon and the methods of animal healing that it hid. At the age of 14, her tribe considered that Zumaya had already obtained the basic knowledge to be considered one of his healers, but only in the applications on animals (since contrary to her mother she did the same as many of his companions and specialized only in an area). When he turned 19, Zumaya and her older brother Cain decided to leave their home in search of a future outside of their Island. They decided to look for luck in Water 7, theirs father’s hometown. Two months after arriving at Water 7 her older brother has already found training and work as a ship builder. Meanwhile Zumaya meets the captain of the crew “Leti’s Fangs”. It is a ship that considers itself as a traveling (itinerant) animal shelter although its most extreme and radical activities have given fame to its crew as animalist terrorists. The captain offers her a place in his crew by promising her the veterinary training they know. Zumaya decides to join them after several discussions and fights with his brother who is convinced that his sister can find training in other ways and with much less dangerous people. In the end his brother allows her to leave reluctantly and dismissing her in the port wishing her to be wrong about his own impressions. Despite the good intentions of the crew members, their rules were extremely radical at times, although Zumaya in her young naivety accepted them and obeyed them without hesitation, allowing herself to be influenced by the ideals promoted by the Captain. In the missions they were forbidden to leave alive anyone who participated in the illegal trade of animals or in the sale of skins and even in legal sales of animal skins. After torturing and killing their enemies they often burned shops and ships belonging to those who they attacked. During her first year Zumaya barely participated in this kind of missions due to her inexperience, but that changed over time.

Seven years after joining the crew, and Zumaya with 26 years, the ship was sentenced to 65 years in prison  and someone of them to die for trying to destroy the secret black market of animals belonging to the world government and for the rest of the crimes committed in their missions . Luckily for Zumaya her brother Cain never stopped looking for news about the crew where her sister was traveling and when he found out he sought help from his twin brother Casimiro, who had been working as a pirate for two years with a crew of his own called “Ishakurk”, together they manage to free their sister and run away from the marines. After this Zumaya returns to Water 7 with her older brother Cain who despite his concern and his anger (for not paying attention to him at the time) creates a custom ship to Zumaya, so she can travel comfortably without the need of a crew doing what she likes most: her work.

Her history with Tristan: She met Tristan when she started sailing for the first time in the crew. Leti’s Fangs The captain was a cocoon who didn’t care his crew suffer. At the beginning Zumaya and Tristan never speak, they caught each other’s attention but they did not talk until they saw each other for the third time When Zumaya was rescuing and helping a poor animal, that’s when they exchanged some words for the first time. When Tristan and Zumaya already considered themselves good friends, Tristan get worry about her because he knew the captain well enough to warn Zumaya that she had to be careful not to trust her captain. She ignored him and even got a little upset, but one day the captain wanted to use Zumaya on a mission where she was the bait for the “enemy”: When the captain called Tristan to ask for ammunition, Tristan finds out about Zumaya’s bad situation. The captain made such an action not only to get the mission, but also to get the free ammunition that Tristan would provide. The deal was that if Tristan gave him the ammunition for free, he would give him where to rescue Zumaya. Tristan was agreed, after rescuing Zumaya, he insists that she must leave the crew. She refuses because she wants to continue saving the animal’s life, at that moment they begin to argue and as a final result she involuntarily slaps Tristan. Without saying words Tristan leaves and he didn’t negotiate with that crew again. Zumaya knew that what she did was wrong and she deeply regretted it, because she really miss him, and regretted her behavior. From there, Zumaya took seriously Tristan’s words, that is, she had many things that she didn’t like about her captain from the beginning, but now she was sure she would not lower her guard. Months later the crew of Zumaya is in jail and she is rescued by her brother. The months pass and Zumaya and Tristan coincide in the same bar and since then they have seen each other several time. Soon they begin a 5 year relationship. They decide to look for a home on a little known island, to be able to live peacefully. Where Zumaya and Tristan take care of the animals that Zumaya has rescued, and then release them in their respective islands. Until they finally get married and have 3 children.

Currently: At this time her life consists of exploring the Grand Line alone helping on her way to the wounded creatures that she finds in the sea, ships and coasts, while writing down in her notebooks the new species and healing methods that she is finding and learning throughout the trip. Whenever she is on her routes when she encounters some form of animal abuse she will intervene to put an end to it in the best of her abilities, sometimes it is she herself who starts the search for skin and animal smugglers to dismantle them, but being alone on many occasions she does not have enough capacity to make them disappear or to really hurt them.  Also she steals money or jewelry in missions

But soon she becomes pregnant with her first two children. So she asks Tristan to rescue the animals and bring them to her so she can heal them. After several years she does not resist and occasionally leaves her children with her parents on Ishamuru Island, while rescuing animals. It’s something that Tristan does not like too much, so he allows it if they go together and it’s only for a few days. He does not want his children to be left without a mother and he does not want Zumaya to take risks. Years later they have a daughter.

Weapons: -A rifle with tranquilizing darts (she uses it with those dangerous or difficult-to-handle animals she has to deal with, but if necessary, in situations of risk she will use it with humans without caring too much about the side effects on them). -A revolver to defend herself and attack. - Syringes with all kinds of medicines, sedatives and poisons (she has to be very careful when using them to avoid mistakes, it is more a last resort than a usual weapon). -A knife with an edge of about 30 centimeters used for the most intense fighting moments. -A small traditional scalpel of her tribe, which not only used in medical interventions but also for the most unpleasant things of their interrogations and revenge. - Her poisonous nail polish (the nail polish it’s created by mixing it with different animal poisons, depending on which poison she uses the effects on her enemies will be different. Luckily for everyone she usually wears gloves except in situations of risk or when she is not wearing the painted nails).

Abilities: She is good at making plans in a short period of time, if needed she can be sneaky and she is quick to her feet in case she must run away. Weaknesses: She is not really good at hand-to-hand combat and she also gets tired very quickly with physical activities. Pets: Num (invented animal. It’s looks like a cat but it’s not a cat xD)  Toroteo (mechanical horse created by Caín). She has more pets on the two island.  —— Art and Oc from Octubre1996 One piece OC

[hothoovesgaming]

Developer Update #3

DISCLAIMER: Hot Hooves Gaming is an indie game developer with no ties to Hasbro or any of its properties. We don’t own any of the characters featured therein, save for the individual Original Character (OC) who has been created for this non-profit fan-made game project.

Wow! April has come and gone in a big way, and I can hardly believe that May is already here. The best part of all this is that classes are over for me and my next semester doesn’t kick in for another few months. Things have been moving particular slowly this month due to class projects and exams, but I’m hoping that May, June and July will be big productive months for our My Little Pony Visual Novel project. Moving on into the update, let’s go! ^_^

Let’s put a number on the project’s progress bar:  8%

Script

We had mentioned that during March, we would be progressing with the story lines for Rarity, Rainbow Dash, and Applejack. In a rather unfortunate way, this has proven to be a very slow process due to the complexity of the first arc we began tackling: Rarity’s romance arc.

This is arguably going to be one of the longest set ups in the game, as far as the romance arcs are concerned. You see, the way that the romance arcs work is that they are fan fictions within the game that advance the plot in one way or another. I wasn’t satisfied with saying, “This is going to be the romance arc for _______. The focus of this story is going to be choosing correct dialogue options that will eventually win the heart of the fair pony by the end of the arc, and they’ll have hearts in their eyes the rest of the story from that point on.”

LAME. And without proper context. So it’s easy to make the main character a lovable dork who gains the interest of all the girls simply because he’s the new colt, or because he is the one who will save the world. Or maybe he’s the main character of the visual novel and he’s supposed to get the girl, right? Well... technically he is. It’s built into the plot that after spending time getting to know the mane six - hey it would make sense to feel impassioned about one of them right?

But what about the mane six? As far as I know, they are not ones to embrace feelings of love toward another colt - in the romantic sort of way. The build for the girls in the visual novel is going to be slow and subtle, to the point that it should feel more natural for the girls to accept that they’ve fallen for the main character who wasn’t just saying the right things all the time, but who was interacting with them constantly and helping them with internal and external issues. “Dusk” tags along with the girls so he can get to know them, and as things spring up as a result of the Crystal Crisis, the girls find that having Dusk around is a much bigger deal than simply having Twilight, or Applejack as their companion when they set off on a trip.

What does this mean for Rarity’s romance arc? I mean to say that it’s going to be much more in depth than a simple scenario where Dusk and Rarity chat for a while and eventually return to Ponyville having grown a little closer after spending quality time together. There’s going to be more to it than that. Mystery. Intrigue. A change of clothes to fit the situation and the genre for the specific situation. It’s something we’re hoping ya’ll will be able to enjoy as a side story within the main campaign of the game. 

It all culminates in the main campaign when Dusk has interacted with everyone and he has forged wonderful bonds that will sustain him for the rest of the story. Oops... at least... that’s what we want you to think anyway. >_o

Cliffnotes: Rarity’s story is still being scripted, so we’ll be working on that immediately! XD XD

Art

Art actually took a lot of attention during the month of April, thanks in part to some advice that we received from a follower on Tumblr. The gist of the conversation was spearheaded by the notion that we needed to get our artist and his respective works “out there”. Credibility, reputation, a following - these are very important factors that could make or break HHG if not handled sooner rather than later.

So during April, we released our Spring Heat Art Pack which featured six fan art pieces for MLP characters enjoying themselves in the warm Spring season. It was a great bit of practice for us, and a challenge to complete a couple of pictures a day during our Spring Break week.

We have also been working on sketch bases for characters who will be appearing in the visual novel including, Shinning Armor, Vinyl Scratch, and Octavia. 

Working on other pieces of fan art, some of which will soon be featured in a future post has also lead to a great deal of practice and increased morale among the group. Some healthy, petting to our collective ego to let us know that we are not the only ones who think that our art is improving as time goes on, and that in the context of the full visual novel - many will be able to appreciate the final product when it finally manifests. ^_^

Programming

Not too much time has gone into programming or planning anymore parts of the visual novel game. We’ve already done a fair bit of experimenting using Tyranno Builder as our visual novel engine. We feel that the prototype menus are a great start to something that could become a little more sophisticated in the future.

However, we are still focused on the scripting phase of our pre-planning process in order to better understand what the game will end up looking like at the end of the production process. By doing more research into the way that other visual novels present themselves, we’re hoping we can come up with an aesthetically pleasing way of presenting our game. When the script is finished, it will be much easier to build the game according to the dialogue and narrative content.

Our main focus for this month is going to be completing the romance arcs for all of our characters in the story. That is, to finish the stories beyond the half way point that we have set up for each of the Mane 6. Twilight, Fluttershy and Pinkie Pie have half of their arcs complete - next up will be the first half of Rarity, Rainbow Dash and Applejack. After ward, Dusk will take a full day to complete the rest of the romance arcs for all of the girls.

The main campaign will then continue with a very exciting revelation that will turn our main character’s world upside down. O_O

That’s going to wrap up this month’s Developer Update for the month of April (in May) XD. Class made things a bit slow for the month of April, but with May on the horizon, we hope to finish a lot of content in order to move the project ahead.

See ya’ll in the next update. And remember -

A crisis is coming...

[thejabell]

Magnus - My Overwatch OC

Saw a couple of my friends posting these up, so I thought I would post up mine as well. It’s a bit of a long read, so if you’re interested click on that read more

Name: Magnus

Occupation: Former Engineer for Omnica Corporation, Tech Dealer, Resistance Fighter

Age: 28

Nationality: American

Base of Operation: Australia

Hair Color: Brown

Eye Color: Heterochromia; left eye blue, right eye green

Height: 6'1"

Weight: 163 lbs

Magnus got his start as an engineer for Omnica, helping develop the security and defense grid systems for their omnium reactor facilities, specializing in creating small but effective energy-based defenses. After the investigation and eventual closure of Omnica Corporation, he was left without a steady job, relying on freelance projects from other organizations like Helix Security and Volskaya Industries to keep himself afloat. Despite the setback, all seemed relatively well…until the reactors turned themselves back on.

It took the combined effort of Overwatch as well as Magnus and his fellow former Omnica engineers to devise a counter-strategy for disabling  the reactors and their defense systems. Despite being offered a position as an engineer for the new organization after the Crisis was over, Magnus turned down their offer in favor of relocating to Australia. In an effort to create peace between the humans and Omnics there, a new kind of omnium facility, one less automated and with improved power output, was in the planning phase of construction. Magnus saw this as an opportunity to use his talents to not only provide a home for the displaced Omnics, but to provide a facility that could be a huge asset for the country as a whole. His efforts and drive were not in vain, and he was soon appointed as Chief Engineer for the new facility. Once again, all seemed to be going well…for a while.

The Australian government had not foreseen the backlash to come from the citizens of the Outback, nor were they prepared to deal with the newly formed Australian Liberation Front so soon after the Omnic Crisis. Despite his best efforts, Magnus and his team were unable to stop the so-called “freedom fighters” from attacking the core. The facility was evacuated, and an emergency signal was called out. He barely managed to escape the facility on the last emergency shuttle out, and thanks to his efforts and quick thinking, none of his team lost their lives that day.

His problems were only beginning however. Most of the country was left an irradiated wasteland, barely inhabitable and filled with all manner of dangerous wreckage and even more dangerous people. Due to his knowledge of the facility and its inner workings, he became a prime target for the Junkers, who desired him to further their own ends. The ALF had put his team and himself in a poor light to the world thanks to their actions,  and many wondered if he had been responsible in some way. Magnus quickly went into hiding,  determined to show in one way or another that he only wanted to help the world.

Magnus set up shop in the barren Outback, scavenging the remains of his former facility to  find a way to fight back against the Junkers and the ALF. He eventually made contact with a small resistance movement, determined to undermine and overthrow the the stranglehold the Junkers held on the country and the innocent people who were still trying to live a somewhat normal life. In exchange for supplies, information and aid in scavenging, he would provide the Resistance and their allies with tech and weapons of his design. Though crude in their construction, they proved effective.

Recently, Magnus has gotten wind of Overwatch’s return. Eager to end this conflict with the Junkers, he has made it a point to try and establish contact with them for further aid and resources. Until then, he continues to push back against them with the Resistance, hoping to restore his good name and make a difference in the world once again.

Weapons/Abilities/Playstyle:

Magnus is a hybrid damage/builder character. His playstyle takes elements of Torbjorn and Symmetra, his main focus being the construction of  remote operated turrets, but with the added trait of another constructable item: Damage Output Transponders aka DOTs. Magnus can construct any number of turrets or DOTs, so long as their combined total does not equal more than 6.

Magnus excels at forming a perimeter with a defense grid of turrets, but due to the often-damaged nature of the parts he scavenges, his system requires a more involved approach. Magnus’ turrets are operated remotely by him, that remote being the firing of his own weapon, as long as he remains within a certain range of them. Venturing too far from them, will cause them to deactivate until he comes back into range. Both his gun and his turrets fire in weak, but straight-shooting bursts, similar to Tracer’s pistols but lacking the larger ammo clip and higher-damage output. His turrets, on their own, also lack any sort of auto-lock feature, instead firing straight-ahead in the direction they are facing. This feature, while preventing them from being a “build it and leave it” strategy that the other builders have, does allow him the element of surprise, allowing Magnus to choose when and where his turrets fire. The turrets, while built to sustain minor damage, unlike Symmetra’s, are still relatively easy to destroy and cannot be repaired, unlike Torbjorn’s.

The DOTs make up the other portion of Magnus’ system. DOTs are placeable on most surfaces like Symmetra’s turrets, and even have the unique feature of being placeable on corners and edges, although they are much more noticeable in this state. DOTs however do no damage on their own. Instead, when placed within a certain range of one or more of his turrets, the turrets will instead fire at the DOT, greatly increasing the speed and damage of the shots that pass through it, as well as auto-locking on to the nearest enemy in range, otherwise once again firing straight-forward. Magnus can even achieve the same effect with his own weapon if he chooses to fire at a DOT rather than directly at an enemy. DOTs do have their limits, however, and if used to quickly in succession will overload and detonate, requiring Magnus to construct a new one in its place. They are also easily destroyed by enemy fire When used correctly, DOTs can greatly extend the range and damage a turret or Magnus’ weapon, or allow him to attack from around corners or blind spots while keeping himself  out of the direct line of fire.

With the ability to construct turrets and DOTs  in any configuration of six of his choosing, Magnus can construct his tools in arrays that suit his needs. A standard 3 and 3 setup can be used to cover a wide area and hold down a choke or control point. Utilizing more turrets with fewer DOTs allows for more concentrated fire with the added risk of overloading the DOT faster than usual.  On the other hand, using more DOTs than turrets could allow Magnus to fire from a variety of angles and directions, potentially even hitting from behind the enemy and around barriers

Magnus also carries a Targeting Disruptor, a device that allows him to be rendered essentially invisible to enemy turrets for a short time. This gives Magnus a slight edge when venturing into area protected by other builders and their turrets, allowing him  a bit of free damage on them before they are able to lock on to him once more. He can even use this brief window to retreat or set up turrets and/or DOTs for a counter-attack.

Magnus’ Ultimate Ability is called Overdrive, and allows his turrets and DOTs to surpass their limits for a brief time, at the expense of every device being destroyed after its effects have passed. During Overdrive, turrets change their rate of fire from a burst to fully automatic, though their ability to fire is still controlled by Magnus’ and his relative range to the turret. DOTs also do not overload during this state, allowing them to be used continuously while Overdrive is active. Right before detonation, every turret will fire one final, extra-powerful shot. On its own, the shot will do moderate damage to an enemy. However, if the shot is fired at a DOT, it will turn into a shot so powerful, it can kill most enemies in a single hit. Enemy barriers can absorb this shot, but doing so will leave them significantly damaged or even destroy them if at low energy. Irregardless of the amount of use they recieve during Overdrive, every turret and DOT is destroyed at its conclusion, leaving Magnus very vulnerable until he can set his defenses back up, making this Ultimate very much one of high-risk/high-reward.

So there he is. I understand that he might not be viable or even broken in some respects. But it’s an idea that I’ve had for a while now and wanted to get written down. Feel free to ask questions about him if you have any!!

[milkshake0304-blog]

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(2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from https://www.asus.com/Graphics-Cards/GTXTITANX12GD5/. GeForce GTX TITAN X. (2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from http://gpuboss.com/graphics-card/GeForce-GTX-TITAN-X. NVIDIA TITAN X Graphics Card for VR Gaming | NVIDIA GeForce. (2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from https://www.nvidia.com/en-us/geforce/products/10series/titan-x-pascal/. Nvidia GeForce GTX Titan X review: Hail to the new king of graphics. (2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from http://www.pcworld.com/article/2897196/nvidia-geforce-gtx-titan-x-review-hail-to-the-new-king-of-graphics-cards.html. Nvidia unveils new GTX Titan X: 11 teraflops, 12GB GDDR5X, just .... (2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from https://arstechnica.com/gadgets/2016/07/gtx-titan-x-pascal-specs-price-release-date/. Nvidia's GeForce GTX Titan X graphics card reviewed. (2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from http://techreport.com/review/27969/nvidia-geforce-gtx-titan-x-graphics-card-reviewed. The Ultimate GPU, TITAN X. Available Now | GeForce. (2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from https://www.geforce.com/whats-new/articles/nvidia-geforce-gtx-titan-x. UserBenchmark: Nvidia GTX Titan X. (2017). Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from http://gpu.userbenchmark.com/Nvidia-GTX-Titan-X/Rating/3282. Ryan Smith. (2017). The NVIDIA GeForce GTX Titan X Review. Retrieved on July 7, 2017, from http://www.anandtech.com/show/9059/the-nvidia-geforce-gtx-titan-x-review.